


Louis Lucas

by theteapirate



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Bisexuality, Bullying, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Homophobia, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Manhandling, Non-Graphic Violence, Overstimulation, Pornstars, Rimming, Size Difference, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 67,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theteapirate/pseuds/theteapirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pornstar!AU. Louis is a pornstar with more issues than he can drink away. Harry is a bisexual singer/songwriter who is desperate to be signed to a major label. Zayn and Liam are Louis's long-suffering best friends (who also happen to be pornstars, and also happen to be dating each other). Niall just wants to play his guitar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pornstar

  
Louis Tomlinson was a man of many secrets.   
  
When he was eleven, his most-protected secret was that every Friday, at 11 o’clock, the school bully, who was called Richard Waits (but Louis privately referred to him as “Dick” in his head, and it was this minor internal rebellion that got Louis through his school days) took Louis behind the wall of the Maths building and beat him up. He avoided hitting Louis in the face because after all, it was Dick’s secret too (though only from the teachers; he proudly boasted about beating up the “little poof” to anyone would listen, especially if any older student was in earshot). He would, however, punch Louis in the stomach, or kick him until he fell to the dirt. Louis always cried (and it wasn’t that he was in pain but that it was  _humiliating,_ more than anything). He also fought back the first few times, but Dick kept growing bigger, and he sometimes brought his friends. Louis, until he was 16 or so, was a rather static fellow; he remained small and loud and all through his schoolboy years, he drew the negative attention of bigger, older boys who wanted to put Louis in his place.  
  
Louis reserved his antics for the classroom, muttering insults about Dick’s intelligence so only Dick and Louis’s friends could hear. Louis had a lot of friends, but all the upperclassmen hated him, and they made sure to take away whatever brief power Louis held over his own peers as soon as the bell rang at the end of the day. When he came home with bruises, he would simply chirp “football practice” to his mother and that was the end of the conversation. The beatings were never horrible, just enough to knock Louis down as many pegs as the bullies saw fit. They might break his glasses (“just some play wrestling, mum”) or shove him into lockers. Louis’s closest friends knew, but they thought it was like an initiation process of sorts for Louis to assume the throne as soon as the upperclassmen graduation, preparing him for the highest echelons of popularity.  
  
But it didn’t work -- because when he turned 16, the sheet was violently ripped off his other most buried, shameful secret: Louis Tomlinson really did like boys. It wasn’t merely a cavalier insult that the older boys hurled at him in moments of uninspired violence; it was true, and Louis would never know if they had some sort of insight on his sexual leanings before he knew himself, or if they were just being idiots. The bullying ended, because they had to graduate some time, but a different kind of bullying began when Louis accidentally kissed Andrew Rice, a beautiful blonde _male_  exchange student, in a moment of reckless, drunken abandon at a party in full view of most of his class. Andrew was not gay, but he wasn’t homophobic either; he was rather kind to Louis in the aftermath, albeit after assuring Louis fervently that he did not return his interest.   
  
The rest of the school was less forgiving. Louis had always been a flamboyant type: he was heavily involved in the school theatre program, he was loud, and he took great care in his every day appearance. As a result, he had always been privy to whispered rumors. But with their newfound proof, they took to hurling cruel homophobic slurs at Louis whenever they had the chance. Despite all of this, Louis refused to submerge himself in anonymity for the rest of his schooldays; instead, he embraced his sexuality. He acquired a kind of fake sexual confidence, an affectation he wore to protect his own withering insecurities. It soon began to consume his entire being. His self-worth was completely dependent on this new Louis he fashioned for himself.  
  
By the age of 17, he had already destroyed two secrets. The third secret was that he was a virgin, a fact which he exerted exhausted efforts to protect from public knowledge. There was no one at school to get rid of it, so had to look elsewhere -- seedy gay bars that he snuck his way into with a bat of pretty eyelashes, wearing his tightest pants and his coyest smile. He found a nice, fit boy enrolled in a nearby university to buy him a drink or five and then fuck him senseless in the bathroom. He never told him it was his first time. They didn’t know each other’s names.   
  
By the time Louis made it back home, head spinning, alcohol rolling around in his stomach, arse aching, he flopped onto his bed with a relieved, blurry smile thinking,  _well now that’s been taken care of._  
  
Now that he’s 21, he has other kinds of secrets, but they’re tailored to the person. To his boyfriends, his secret is his profession. He’s a pornstar -- minor league, mind you, but a good number of self-respecting gay men involved in the queer community have at least heard of him. His boyfriends can’t know because as soon as they do he’s relegated to a sex object, or a good story to tell their mates, or a slut they fuck one last time before patting him on the cheek mockingly with a mean, “Louis Tomlinson, huh? A little bird told me you also sometimes go by Louis Lucas.”   
  
(Louis Lucas is his porn name -- alliterations make good porn names, apparently, according to his boss Simon.)  
  
But Louis’s most private secret is that according to himself, he’s an utter disaster of a human being. He can’t get rid of this secret with a closet outing, or a quick underage fuck in a gay bar, but he can cover it up -- with a breezy confidence, a lot of alcohol, and a slew of random fucks.   
  
This is his exact plan of action tonight -- if it weren’t for the meddling protection of Liam and Zayn, his best friends who, if you ask Louis, love him far too much, or at least more than he deserves.  
  
\--  
  
“Liam.  _Liam_!” Zayn hisses through his teeth. “Get your pretty arse over here.”  
  
Liam sways over, giggling, his lonely liver unable to keep up with his steady intake of alcohol. “What?”  
  
“What are we going to do about him?”  
  
“About  _him_?”  
  
Zayn tightens his mouth and looks pointedly at the table next to theirs, where Louis Tomlinson is currently making a complete arse of himself, dancing flamboyantly on the table with the neck of a bottle of Absolut clutched protectively in his fist.   
  
“Oh no,” Liam whispers sadly, his smile sliding off his face. “When did he start doing that?”  
  
“About twenty-five minutes ago.”  
  
“And I didn’t notice?”   
  
“You were busy talking to that woman. You looked giddy. I didn’t want to interrupt you. Until -- until I had to. I’m afraid Lou’s endangered himself.”  
  
“Why?”   
  
“See that man over there by the bar? Built like a house, leering smile, scary crew cut? He’s holding a beer.”  
  
“Oh, him,” Liam says, nodding. “Yeah, he looks like a predator.”  
  
“He’s going to eat Louis.”  
  
“Oh, but Louis’s had worse...”  
  
“No, no -- he’s filming tomorrow. And that guy looks like he’s got a fucking python hidden away in those pants. Louis’s arse should be, you know, _rested_.”  
  
“You’re probably right.”  
  
“Of course I’m right.” Zayn kisses Liam on the nose. “Plus he just looks like a twat.”  
  
“Agreed. So what do we do about him?”   
  
Zayn frowns, stepping over to the table. Louis’s arm swings in front of his face, and Zayn catches his wrist, gently removing the bottle of vodka from his hand.  
  
“How very dare you!” Louis cries, immediately jumping off the table, landing surprisingly steady (though he falls onto Liam shortly after, mouth gaping dumbly.)   
  
“That was easier than I expected,” Liam comments.  
  
“He’s predictable,” Zayn shrugs.   
  
“Am not!” Louis protests loudly. “Am not! I am a fucking  _portrait_ of wild spontaneity!  An exhilarating cocktail of adventure and  _zest._ I’m  _zesty_!”   
  
Zayn puts his arm around Louis’s shoulders, expressionless. He puts his other arm around Liam’s waist. “Louis, shut up. We’re walking.” Together, they leave the bar, stumbling suspiciously as Zayn concentrates on sobering up enough to take care of his lightweight boyfriend and his boozy best friend.   
  
“How the fuck did you even get an entire bottle? They don’t just give out bottles.”  
  
“Well,” Louis slurs. “They do if you’re irresistibly sexy.  _You_ wouldn’t know anything about that.”  
  
“Or if you show the bartender your bum,” Liam says, smiling sweetly, before stumbling on air.   
  
“Shut up! Lies and blasphemy!” Louis screams.  
  
Zayn slaps his hand over Louis’s mouth. The street is not crowded, but there is a cop car on the corner and Zayn would rather not get arrested for his best friend’s idiotic drunken misbehavior.   
  
“Kinky,” Louis says, muffled through Zayn’s fingers. Zayn squeezes his jaw. Louis licks his hand. Zayn’s hand springs away, disgusted.  
  
“You’re an insufferable arsehole.”  
  
Louis giggles. When they finally arrive at Zayn’s flat, Liam sets up a bed on the couch for Louis. He gently guides him over despite Louis’s belligerent attempts to bite his face.  He tucks the covers around him and kisses Louis’s forehead. Louis sighs happily.   
  
“You know, this is like the eighth night in a row you’ve slept at ours.”  
  
“I know, I’m so sorry,” Louis says sleepily. “You could be having so much sex on this couch.”  
  
Liam blushes, swatting at him. Zayn comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Liam’s waist. “And why aren’t you sleeping at your flat again?” Zayn asks.   
  
“I don’t like my flat anymore,” Louis mumbles.  
  
“And why not?”  
  
“Because it’s ugly.”  
  
“Well that’s ‘cause you never pick up any of your shit.”  
  
“Well there’s no one for me to pick it up for!”   
  
“Right. Except, you know, you,” Zayn says flatly.  
  
“I think he’s trying to say that there’s no one he’s trying to impress,” Liam says.  
  
“Liam’s nailed it!” Louis cries.   
  
“Well you should still try to keep it clean for yourself,” Zayn says.  
  
“And why’s that?”  
  
“I dunno, so you don’t die.”  
  
“You’re overdramatic.”  
  
“Suit yourself, mate. Hope the couch is comfortable,” Zayn salutes him, and drags Liam to their room. “Night, Lou.”  
  
“Oh shut up, you lovesick twat!” Louis shouts after them. Zayn closes the door. He leans against it, and looks at Liam with raised eyebrows.  
  
“This is getting ridiculous.”  
  
“And also sad,” Liam adds, frowning.  
  
“And also sad.”  
  
“What if we set him up?”  
  
“On a date? No, Lou’s got no problem getting dates.”  
  
“Then why can’t he find himself a goddamn boyfriend?”  
  
“Well, ‘cause --”  
  
Liam just furrows his eyebrows. It’s adorable, so Zayn takes him by the chin and kisses him. Liam stares back, still confused.  
  
“You don’t think--”  
  
“It’s got to be.”  
  
“But he’s a fucking porn star! Boys should be lining up around the corner!”  
  
“Right, and they  _do._ Problem is they only want to stay the night.”  
  
“Well...I mean, that’s not so bad. Louis loves sex.”  
  
“Yeah, but he’s still  _human._ He still needs cuddles and someone to bring home to meet his Mum and bring him cutesy shit on Valentine’s Day.”  
  
Liam frowns. “You’ve made me sad.”  
  
“I’m sorry. But also not. Because I like that I have you to fuck me and also give me cutesy shit.”  
  
“Romantic.”  
  
Zayn just kisses him on the nose again.   
  
“And Louis -- Louis told you he wanted that? Like, a boyfriend, a real boyfriend?”  
  
“I mean, in his own Louis-ish way...yeah.”  
  
“So basically we have to find somebody that doesn’t know he’s a pornstar.”  
  
“That’s probably our best bet.”  
  
“How about -- how about that friend of yours from uni, the one with--”  
  
“Liam, babe, any one we know is going to know he’s a pornstar.”  
  
“That’s not true! What about Paul? Paul doesn’t know--”  
  
“Yeah because it would break him, bless his poor Catholic heart.”  
  
“Fine. So what do you propose we do, then, oh wise one? Craigslist?”  
  
“No, I don’t want him held captive in the demented clutches of some pervert on Craigslist, I just want it to be more  _organic,_ you know, then us playing matchmaker.”  
  
“Wait! I’ve got it!”  
  
“Here we go.”  
  
“That kid, you know...Danielle’s friend! We met him at her birthday dinner! He was really tall and friendly and...ugh, I forget his name. I think it was Glen.”  
  
“Glen? No one even semi-appealing can be named  _Glen._ It just not a part of God’s plan for sexy people to be named Glen, I’m sorry. It’s out of the question.”  
  
“Oh shut up, Zayn, he was fine! He was fit, and exactly Louis’s type--”  
  
“No, Liam, what are you talking about. Louis usually goes for the uglies--”  
  
"Would you stop?” Liam kicks him. “Please take this seriously! I think this guy could work. He’s single, he’s  _fit,_ he’s in university for like...sports medicine or something. He was tall. Louis likes tall. And he was curly-haired. Louis likes that.”  
  
“Wait, I do remember him. He drank over an entire bottle of merlot by himself and was completely fine. Terrifying alcohol tolerance. Not sure what that means.”  
  
“Well, what do you say then? Should we call Danielle? Try to set them up?”  
  
“I mean, yeah, go for it. I don’t think Louis’ll take this too well, though. He’ll think we feel sorry for him, the proud little cunt.”  
  
“He’ll get over it when he sees  _Glen,_ ” Liam smiles proudly, holding the phone to his ear.  
  
“You’re cute,” Zayn says, sprawling out on their bed. Liam sits cross-legged against the wall.   
  
“You’re mean, but I like you anyways. Oh! Hello! No, Dani, that was not directed at you-- though I do like you, of course.”  
  
Liam pauses while she speaks, scrunching his face up at Zayn, who mirrors his expression. “I have a bit of a weird favor to ask. Louis needs a date. A date who isn’t some perv looking to hook up with a pornstar. And I was thinking -- that guy Glen, do you still know him? At least I think his name was Glen. Tall, goes to uni around here, dark curly hair...he was at your birthday party. Yes! That’s the one! He’s gay, right?”  
  
Liam gives Zayn the thumbs up.   
  
“Is he single?”   
  
Another thumbs up.  
  
“So what do you say? I think they should at least go out once, see how they like each other. Ah, excellent. You’re the best. I love you, I’ll call you tomorrow.” Liam hangs up.  
  
“We’re in! Also his name isn’t Glen, it’s Donald.”  
  
“Oh my god, that’s even worse.”  
  
Liam smacks him with a pillow. 

-

“You what.” Louis sounds murderous, hair pillow-disheveled and eyes dark with exhausted shadows.   
  
“We set you up! On a date!” Liam is practically bouncing with excitement.  
  
“Why the fuck did you do that?” He cries, holding his head in his hands, temples pounding, punishing him with a vicious hangover. “Oh god, it’s going to be so awkward...what kind of sad fuck has to get  _set up_? Sweet Jesus, I’m losing it...my looks are going...I’m getting weird and wrinkly, aren’t I? No one wants to fuck me anymore!”  
  
“Louis, shut up, you’re being stupid,” Zayn cuts in. “Look, we just thought it’d be a nice change for you for once to meet someone who doesn’t know about your rather problematic profession. That’s all.”  
  
“Well, he’ll find out eventually! It’s sort of a difficult secret to keep, as you bloody well know!”   
  
“Louis, calm down. It’s going to be fine. If he finds out, he finds out. But this way you know that he’s not interested in  _because_ you’re a porn star, yeah? It’s just another fact about you.”  
  
“But how could he possibly want to keep seeing someone that literally gets fucked by other men, AKA men that are not him _for a_   _living._ I’m like a professional cheater! A dirty slutty adulteress!”  
  
“Okay, one you can’t be an adulteress because that’s a feminine term, mate, and two, you’re not getting married, you haven’t even  _seen_ the guy yet, so don’t get so ahead of yourself. Just, take it slow, one date at a time. Look, Glen -- I mean, Donald, whatever -- might be a complete twat and then you never have to see him again. Or he could be an absolute doll and you really hit it off and then whoops, one day he finds out you just so happen to be a pornstar and guess what? He’s totally understanding about it.”  
  
“That’s a fairy tale, Zayn. Porn stars can’t be in relationships! We’re professional sluts!"  
  
“Oh shut up, you miserable little twat -- don’t you see you’re insulting the people standing right in front of you?”  
  
“But you’re  _both_ in porn, it’s different!”  
  
“What, you think I don’t get jealous when Liam has to film a scene with someone who isn’t me? You think it’s not weird for me to fuck someone who isn’t Liam? Because it is! But it’s a job. Just a fucking job. It means  _nothing._ I know that, Liam knows that. You will find somebody. Maybe it’ll be this Donald person, maybe it won’t.”  
  
Louis shakes his head, then says, quite seriously, “I’m going to die alone.”  
  
Zayn throws his hands into the air. “Liam, take over. I can’t take him anymore.” He stalks away into the kitchen.  
  
Liam smiles apologetically at Louis, folding him into his chest. “Lou? You’re beautiful.”  
  
“Thank you, Liam,” Louis says, his voice muffled in Liam’s chest. “You’re very beautiful as well.”  
  
“I’m willing to bet that’s how we got into porn.”  
  
“I’d say you’ve nailed it again, Li.”  
  
They sit quietly for a moment. “Was it your idea or Zayn’s?” Louis asks after a silence.  
  
“Erm, well. Both, I think.”  
  
“Is it because I’m preventing you from glorious couch sex?”  
  
“No, babe, it’s because we want you to be happy.”  
  
“But that’s too cute.”  
  
“But it’s true.”  
  
“Fine, then. Well how’d you know I was unhappy anyways?”  
  
“Because you’re not as a good a liar as you think you are.”  
  
“I’m a fantastic liar.”  
  
“Yeah, but -- not to us. We know you, Boo Bear.”  
  
“Please don’t call me that.”  
  
“Boo Bear, I know all your masks. And I know you’re not happy with people treating you like a whore. I see how sad you get.”  
  
“Okay, you’re making me sound like a really pathetic little cunt.”  
  
“I don’t mean to! All I’m saying is you can pretend to be fine all you want but Zayn and I know you better than that.”  
  
“Well then I hate you both.”  
  
“Impossible,” says Zayn from the doorway, balancing three cups of tea. He sets them down on the table. “Don’t you have balls to shave or something?”  
  
“How dare you suggest that my  _downstairs area_ is anything less than baby-smooth? I’m like an infant down there. Besides, I’m not allowed to do it myself anymore. El says I don’t do a ‘thorough enough’ job.” Louis’s voice takes on a haughty inflection.   
  
“Arseholes.”  
  
“Exactly. Arseholes. Just arseholes who are obsessed with my arsehole. Too many arseholes!”  
  
“I don’t even remember what my pubes look like anymore. I miss them,” Liam says sadly.  
  
“How can you miss something you don’t remember?” Zayn asks seriously.  
  
“You know, like how a mother might miss a baby she put up for adoption. Or aborted.”  
  
“That very well may be the worst analogy you’ve ever made, darling. I’d stick to cock sucking, if I were you,” Louis interjects.  
  
“Hey now--!” Liam begins to protest.  
  
“A talent’s a talent, babe.” Zayn grins.  
  
“Hey! Aren’t you supposed to be protecting my honor or something?”   
  
“Or something.”  
  
“Dicks, both of you.”  
  
“Ohhhh, look at this bad bitch, calling me names.” Louis turns to Zayn conspiratorially. “Better keep your eye on that one Zayn, he’s got a dirty little potty mouth.”  
  
“That he does.”  
  
“Stop it, the both of you! You’ve embarrassed me. It’s all very upsetting.”  
  
“Don’t worry, babes. If you’d like, I’ll suck your cock, right now,” Zayn says appeasingly, grinning.  
  
“Oh, get a room, I don’t want to hear that!” Louis groans.  
  
“Don’t pretend like you have  _shame,_ Louis Tomlinson. You’ve seen all our porn.”  
  
“By force. Simon makes me watch them. It was 100% non-consensual.”  
  
“You were hard.”  
  
“And how on Earth would you know a thing like that!”  
  
“So you don’t deny it.”  
  
“Argh -- Zayn! Twat! Cocksucking little motherfucker...” Louis grumbles under his breath, downing the rest of his tea and throwing the cup into the sink with a dull clatter. “I’m going to the studio.”  
  
“Why? It’s only 11,” Liam says, ripping his neck away from Zayn’s mouth.   
  
“Because they’ve got to shave my balls before the shoot,” Louis says tonelessly, grabbing his coat from where he’d tossed in on the floor the night before.   
  
“Nasty,” Zayn says cheekily.   
  
Louis throws him a dirty look as he stomps out the door.   
  
“I think he forgot his script,” Liam says, glancing at the stack of paper on the counter.  
  
\--  
  
“Oh, Jesus Titty Fucking Christ, that’s cold,” Louis moans, bent awkwardly over a table while El’s assistant shaves his balls. “Can’t you like, rub it between your hands or something instead of spraying it directly on my bum? It isn’t fair. None of this is fair. Who else has to do this? What other occupation lists “hairless genitals” as a pre-requisite?”  
  
No one answers him. He twists his head around to stare sharply at the assistant. “Bet Eleanor didn’t tell you this was a part of the job, did she, hmm? Thought you might be doing a bit of paperwork, some copying, perhaps making a cup of tea every now and then, right?”  
  
Eleanor steps into the room with a clipboard and flicks Louis’s thigh with the tip of her pen. “Please don’t respond to anything he says,” she says flatly to the assistant. “And Louis stop being a prick. This is unpleasant enough.”  
  
“How dare you -- it’s a privilege. That there is a one million dollar bum. It’s fucking delightful down there. I should get it insured. This girl’s probably having the time of her life, aren’t you?”  
  
“Again, you don’t have to respond. It only encourages him.”  
  
Louis makes a face at Eleanor. She smiles down at him sweetly, ruffling his hair. “Now today you’re filming with Peter--” she starts, before Louis cuts her off with a groan.  
  
“I hate Peter. I hate all of those ‘gay-for-pay’ pricks.”  
  
“Consider it your job to turn him, then,” Eleanor says sharply. “You’ll be in Studio 2. I’m assuming you read the script...”  
  
“Yeah, I think I left mine at home though.”  
  
“Angela will get you a copy when she’s done.” She nods to the assistant, who is presumably Angela. “Just bring it to Hair and Makeup.”  
  
Angela hands Louis a towel when she finishes. “Babe, if I had even a shred of modesty left, I wouldn’t be in porn.” She shrugs and puts it back, then leaves to make copies.  
  
“I like her. Everyone should be mute,” Louis comments when the door shuts. Eleanor throws a robe at him and asks him to stand.   
  
“Modesty or not, not everyone wants to see your dick. Come on, we’re going to Hair and Makeup.”  
  
“But it’s beautiful,” Louis protests, shrugging on the robe. He follows her down the corridor, but stops abruptly when they reach the door. Peter is inside.   
  
They make awkward eye contact as Louis steps into the room. Peter looks like a gym rat -- tall and sculpted, without an inch of fat or good manners. “Hello again,” Louis says brightly, smiling cheerfully. He plops down in the seat next to him. Peter smiles tightly in return, but doesn’t make eye contact. Louis frowns.   
  
“Peter, how old are you?”  
  
“26.”  
  
“Ah. Okay. Erm...” Louis searches for something to say, but there’s nothing. They sit in uncomfortable silence.  
  
The makeup artist steps inside, and Louis smiles perhaps a bit too excitedly, grateful for someone besides Peter to talk to.  
  
“Lucy!” He exclaims.   
  
She kisses the top of his head. “Hello, my Lou Lou.”  
  
“You know, only you get to call me that. Anyone else would get a slap."  
  
He shoots Peter a look, who says nothing, choosing instead to stare at himself in the mirror, stony-faced.  
  
“Is that your brooding face, Peter?” Louis asks innocently. “It’s quite effective. I can feel its smoldering power from here.”  
  
Peter’s finally makes eye contact with Louie, glaring at him in a way he probably thinks is intimidating. Louis returns his glare with a smile, unfazed.  
  
“Louie, play nice,” Lucy scolds gently, scooping two of her fingers under his chin to dust powder on his cheekbones.   
  
“I am playing nice! I complimented him.” He can’t turn his head, so he settles for stretching his gaze as far as he can in Peter’s direction. “Peter, I think you’re very good-looking. You’d be surprised how rare that is. Not rare that I found someone good-looking -- because that’s not rare at all, in fact my standards are sub-par at best -- but rare that someone’s so good-looking in porn. Though, if I’m being perfectly honest, it was probably your dick that got you the job. Though I’m assuming you’ll take that as an even bigger compliment.”  
  
Peter simply grunts in response, twiddling with his phone.   
  
“Peter, please talk to me. We can’t go on like this!” Louis says dramatically, in his best impersonation of a swooning soap opera heroine. “I feel so distant from you! We used to have _conversations!_ You won’t even look at me! Oh, Peter, please, I can hardly stand it!” Lucy giggles. Peter stands up forcefully, his chair screeching unpleasantly on the floor.  
  
“When is  _my_ hair and makeup person going to come?” Peter complains loudly.   
  
“ _I’m_ your hair and makeup person,” Lucy says, still bent over Louis’s face.   
  
“What kind of face am I getting anyways?” Louis asks, ignoring Peter’s irritated grumbling beside him.  
  
“Well you’re playing a student, so I’m just trying to make you look a little younger. All fresh-faced and lovely.”  
  
“And Peter?”  
  
“He’s going to be dressed up like a proper professor. No makeup, unless Simon decides otherwise at the last minute, but he is going to get some gel in his hair, make his curls a little more defined.”  
  
Eleanor enters with a clothing rack. “Boys, here are your costumes. Lucy can help if you have any trouble. I expect you in Studio 2 in ten.”  
  
“Thank you, El!” Louis shouts after her.  
  
Peter merely grunts.   
  
“Go on, Lou, you’re finished,” Lucy says, messing up his hair a bit before moving on to Peter.   
  
“Oh God, this is so cheesy,” Louis moans, picking up the schoolboy button-down and tie. “I can’t wait until I’m too old to still be playing schoolboys. Wait, fuck that -- if I’m still doing porn when I’m too old to play schoolboys, you can shoot me.”  
  
Peter shoots him a dirty look. Once Lucy finishes his hair, he joins Louis at the clothing rack. His costume consists of a blazer, slacks, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.  
  
While shimmying into his too-tight schoolboy trousers, Louis accidentally knocks over Peter’s glasses with his elbow. He apologizes and picks them up. Peter snatches them with a glower before leaving for the studio. He doesn't wait for Louis. Lucy smiles at Louis apologetically.   
  
“It’s alright, they’re all like that,” he says, voice straining to remain cheerful. “Sometimes I like to pretend they’re method acting -- getting into character, you know, before they have to fuck me all rough and manly-like. I think this one gets to hit me with a ruler. ‘Teach me a lesson’ or something. I’m sure he’ll like that.”  
  
“Well, he can’t get  _too_ rough.”  
  
“Yeah, but he will. And Simon’ll let him, because it looks good on camera.” Lucy frowns at this. “But don’t worry!” He says, reaching out to pat her shoulder. “I’ll be fine, I’m used to it, really. I’m sure I scare Peter a lot more than he scares me!” Louis says, as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as her. “I’ll see you next weekend, Lu!”   
  
He hurries over to the Studio, and feels his pulse speeding up a little bit, like it always does before a shoot. Peter doesn’t scare Louis. He doesn’t. But he doesn’t like Louis, and he’s stupid, and a bad actor -- it’s a nasty combination that Louis is used to. He can’t make them act better, and he definitely can’t improve their intelligence, but he can try, desperately, to make them like him in the twenty or thirty minutes he gets with them before a shoot. It usually doesn’t work. Some of them are nice, of course, but that’s rare. These particular models are chosen because of their dicks, their bodies, and their overcompensatory amount of testosterone. They claim they’re straight but there’s also, in every single one of them, a small hidden pocket of raging homosexuality. They’re aware of their “degeneracy,” and they hate it, and they hate Louis for bringing it out of them. He’s punished for it every time.   
  
Simon greets him in his usual standoffish way. He carelessly fixes Louis’s hair, pats his cheek, and pushes him over the set desk. There’s a chalkboard mounted on the wall behind it, and a big, swiveling chair that Peter is currently sprawled on, wearing his brooding face. Louis smiles at him, with a meek sort of wave. Peter merely nods. Simon guides Louis through his marks, pointing to a little line of blue tape.   
  
When he finally leaves, Louis is left standing awkwardly alone with Peter. “Shall we run our lines then?” Louis suggests, trying to hide his nerves. He doesn’t like the cruel way Peter is looking at him.  
  
“Nah, I looked at them beforehand.”  
  
Louis tries not to become frustrated. “Yes, so did I, but see now we’re here  _together_ \--”  
  
“I don’t want to.”  
  
“Alright,  _sorry, mate,_ just thought I’d ask,” Louis says, biting down on his temper.   
  
Simon shouts at them from behind his camera. “We’re starting in 2. Louis, stand on the line. Peter, stay where you are. But sit up.” Eleanor places a stack of fake papers for Peter to grade on the desk.   
  
“When I say action, start going through the papers, pretend to read them, and use that pen to scribble on them. Make it look good. Louis, on your cue, approach his desk, and ask him about your failing grade. You’re trying to persuade him to pass you. You’re innocent and sweet, but not totally innocent. But you’re not seducing him either. It’s on his terms. We roll in 1. El, fix Louis’s hair -- stop playing with it!”   
  
“Sorry!”   
  
“And...action!”  
  
\--  
  
“Mr. Lucas. What can I help you with?” Peter says, exaggerating the deepness of his voice. Louis cringes, forcing himself to  plaster on his best impression of an innocent schoolboy.   
  
He bites his lip, twisting his hands together nervously. “Well, sir, it’s just that -- I saw that I had a failing grade in the class. My father’s going to be so  _angry_  with me--” Louis bats hie eyelashes, ridiculously. “Is there -- isn’t there anything I can do? To raise my grade?”  
  
“Absolutely not, Lucas. That’s the grade you earned, and you’ll keep it.”  
  
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that I get so -- so --” Louis pauses for dramatic effect. “ _Distracted_.” He gasps a little on the last syllable, his eyes flicking obviously up and down Peter’s body.   
  
“So what do you propose I do then?” Peter says, the words falling out awkward and stiff.  Louis contains his cringe.  
  
“Whatever you want, sir. I’ll do  _anything_ ,” Louis begs. Peter leers unattractively.  
  
“I don’t know, Lucas. I’m not sure you deserve a second chance.  
  
“ _Please,_ sir, just one more chance.”  
  
The rest of the dialogue isn’t worth documenting. Peter tells Louis to get on his knees. Louis sucks his cock, but Peter doesn’t come. Peter bends Louis over the desk. He fucks him.  
  
It’s the kind of fucking that makes Louis feel ugly and worthless. Peter barely touches him, just leaves Louis’s cock to smear wetly against the desk, barely hard, while he slams his hip into Louis’s arse. Meanwhile, Peter’s hands remain on the desk, gripping it tightly, while Louis moans and tosses his head back and begs for more, trying to hide the fact that his cock is barely even at half-mast. Then Peter moves to his chair, and Louis rides him. Again, Peter hardly touches him. Simon’s camera is right on top of him for the close-up shots, and Louis jerks himself off harder than the shoot calls for, but he isn’t hard enough and Simon will want the come shot soon. Finally, with a gasp of pain that he prays sounds more like a gasp of pleasure, Louis comes on Peter’s stomach. Peter picks Louis up and puts him on the desk, (the most he’s touched him the entire shoot) and shoots his load on the desk between Louis’s thighs. He scoops it up on his fingers and makes Louis lick it off. Louis can’t imagine why anyone would get off on this -- it feels clinical and awkward and even though Louis gave it his all, he’s positive that Peter’s dull surliness will overshadow any sex appeal he might have otherwise had.  
  
The minute Simon calls cut, Louis is gone. He accepts the robe Eleanor hands him, barely able to muster a grateful smile before he hurries to the showers. He’s surprised to find Zayn and Liam inside, pressed against the sinks, kissing. They look lovely and intimate. Usually it would make him happy -- now he just feels sick.   
  
“Hello,” he says, trying to sound more chipper than he feels. They break away, startled. Zayn’s face lights up immediately.   
  
“Louis!” Liam exclaims, going in for a hug.  
  
Louis stops him. “You don’t want to do that, mate. I’ve got all sorts of fluids on me.” He drops his towel gracelessly and steps into the shower.   
  
“How was your shoot?” Zayn asks, his voice echoing strangely in the bathroom.  
  
“Eh, you know. Pretty good,” Louis says, suddenly grateful for the curtain hiding his face. He scrubs himself furiously.  
  
“You were with Peter, right?” Liam asks.  
  
“Yeah. Huge cock.”  
  
“Was he nice?” He sounds tentative. Liam and Zayn both know Peter, and all the other models under Simon’s employment that claim they’re “straight.”   
  
“Yeah!” Louis says, his voice going a little too high-pitched. “You don’t have a shoot tonight, right?”  
  
“No -- we’re just hiding in here until Simon figures out our schedule for next weekend. I think I persuaded him to give us at least two scenes together, so that’s good.”  
  
“Ah, that’s great!” Louis says brightly. He turns the water to cold and stands under it for a moment. His cheeks still feel hot from the shoot. Finally, he turns off the water and steps out. Liam hands him a towel.   
  
“He didn’t happen to mention anything about me, did he?”  
  
“Not really, they just mentioned that feature-length thing they’ve had in the works now. They were talking about who they want to cast for what parts.”  
  
“What’s the theme?”  
  
“I dunno, think it’s like a boarding school thing.”  
  
“I refuse to play another schoolboy! Flat out refuse!” Louis says loudly.  
  
“Hey, bring it up with Simon, not me,” Zayn says. “El put your clothes on the counter, by the way.”  
  
Louis pulls on his clothes and towel-dries his hair, then beckons them to follow him. When they reach Simon’s office, Peter is also waiting outside. Louis freezes, swallowing, feeling uncomfortable, but approaches him anyways. Louis clears his throat and says, somewhat hoarsely, “Hey, Peter. You were really good today.”  
  
“Thanks,” Peter says shortly. He offers no compliments in return. Liam and Zayn watch the exchange, frowning.   
  
Simon finally steps out of his office, handing them each a sheet of paper. “Liam and Zayn, you have a shoot together next Wednesday. If that will stifle your bitching for at least two weeks, I’ll be satisfied,” Simon says, winking at them. “Liam’s the bottom. Zayn, you’re playing the straight lad who’s recently found himself getting aroused by his best friend. His curiosity stirs. His imagination runs wild. Is he straight after all? Naturally, he must fuck Liam, lest his sanity run away from him. Easy enough, yes? Excellent. And Peter, you’re off for the week. Also I’d like to speak you with in my office for a moment before I let you go. And Louis, you have a scene with the new boy -- Tyler. That’s on Friday. And you’re topping. See you lads next weekend. Liam and Zayn, keep the fucking to a minimum, please. I need you desperately horny on Wednesday.”  
  
Liam blushes in response. They wave their goodbyes. Louis tries not to notice the fierce glare that Peter shoots at his back.  
  
“What the fuck is up with Peter?” Zayn asks bluntly, as soon as they leave the building.   
  
“What do you mean?” Louis asks innocently.  
  
“He was a fucking prick to you! And why would Simon want to talk to him?”  
  
“I don’t -- I don’t know --”  
  
“He was rather rude,” Liam says seriously, putting his arm around Louis’s waist. “But I thought you had a good shoot?”  
  
“Yeah, but you know how those lads are -- always have to be so aggressively  _straight-laced_ about it, lest I get the absolutely  _insane_ impression that they actually want to fuck me.”  
  
They walk in silence back to their building. Louis’s is farther down the street. Liam and Zayn look at each other, utterly bewildered, when Louis continues walking past their building, waving goodbye.   
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“What do you mean? I’m going home,” Louis says.  
  
“But -- well, why don’t you come up for a drink or something?” Liam asks.  
  
“No, I’ve interrupted your couch sex for far too long. I’ll see you later, though!”  
  
“What’ll you do, then?”  
  
“I don’t know...sleep, probably,” Louis grins, overly chirpy. “I can manage on my own, you know!”  
  
“I know, but--!” Liam begins to protest, but Louis’s back has already turned. Zayn puts his hand on Liam’s arm, dragging himself.  
  
“Come on, babe.”

-

At 4 AM, Liam is shaken awake by Zayn. He scrubs his hand over his face groggily.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Listen to this.”  
  
Zayn holds the phone to Liam’s ear. At first he hears nothing, then footsteps and odd, slurred mumbling, then a sort of slurping sound, and then the unmistakable sound of sobbing. It’s Louis.   
  
They hears his voice: “ _Zayn. Zayn, I dun know where I am -- but -- but --_ ” He breaks off, hiccuping and crying.  _“I can’t see -- ugh -- and I smelllll. Zayn I’m sorry -- Liam I’m sorry -- you -- whatsyer name? I’m sorry -- oh no -- oh no --_ ” He’s retching. “ _Fuck_ ,  _fuck, fucking fuckfuckfuck._ ” And then the voicemail ends.   
  
Liam sits up. “We have to find him.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“I don’t know!” Liam cries, hands wringing frantically as he looks for a shirt. “We’ll go to his flat first, see if maybe someone saw him? Maybe he’s even made it home by now...”  
  
Zayn pulls on a sweatshirt and stuffs his keys and phone into the pocket. “Guess it’s worth a shot.”  
  
It’s dark and silent out, but thankfully not too cold. They jog to Louis’s building and rush up the stairwell, which smells awful, like piss and vomit--  
  
And then they see the vomit. And then they see Louis. He’s passed out, curled up small on the last step. He’s wearing someone else’s shirt and clutching a bottle of rum to his chest. His fly is down, and there is a smear of come on his trousers. Liam crouches down, gently shaking him awake. No response.  
  
“Ah, he’s gone, Li,” Zayn grumbles. He picks Louis up under his arms, where he flops limply, and transfers him to Liam, who lifts him up, bridal-style. Zayn pries the bottle from Louis’s fingers. “Feels like deja vu.”   
  
They carry him into his flat. Liam lays him carefully on his bed, taking off his shoes and tucking him in. Zayn brings him a glass of water and an aspirin. “Should we write him a note?” He whispers.   
  
“Nah, he’ll know. We’ll call him in the morning, bring him breakfast or something.”  
  
“We’re going to have to,” Zayn whispers, glancing around the filthy room. “I doubt he even has any food here. Or dishes. Or soap. Or a fuckin’ laundry basket.” Zayn kicks aside a stray pair of trousers, and a shoe. “Oy, is that a skirt? What the fuck’s a skirt doing in here?”  
  
“I also count, let’s see - one, two, oh, that’s three thongs.”  
  
“Did Louis have a heterosexual orgy?”  
  
“There’s no way. He said himself -- he finds vaginas ‘unpleasantly mysterious.’  
  
“Maybe he was trying to solve the mystery.”  
  
“Somehow I think he was doing something much more perverse. Oh, that’s a dildo,” Liam says lightly, as they step carefully around stray trash, an apple core, crumpled gum wrappers, at least three used condoms, a roll of duct tape, an orange rind, yet another dildo, much larger than the last, a half-eaten carton of french fries, a pair of handcuffs, a laptop charger, and a stack of birthday cards for his sisters and his mum.  
  
“How does he live like this?” The living room isn’t as bad -- mostly rotting food, more trash, loose DVDs without cases, and some scattered, dog-eared books.   
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“It’s like a cave of degenerate sex and whorish self-loathing. Where dignity comes to die.”  
  
“I feel like I need a good, long shower just standing in here.”  
  
“He’s probably got all sorts of dark creatures lurking in here.”  
  
“You think he’ll clean up before his date with Donald?”  
  
“For Donald’s sake, I really fucking hope so.”  
  
\--  
  
They come back around 8 AM. Louis’s hangovers always wake him up early, as Liam and Zayn well know. They bring him a big, beautiful, hangover-curing fry-up that Louis eats slowly and painfully.   
  
“So, erm...would you like to explain that voicemail? And why you were passed out in the stairwell?” Zayn says, straightforward as always.   
  
“It’s quite a simple story, really,” Louis says with a mouthful of egg. “I felt shitty. Went out. Found this really fit guy to buy me a drink -- he was kind of short, but had a good body still, and a bit creepy, but I got to that nice blurry point where I didn’t care -- and then there were body shots, somewhere, and tequila. My arch-nemesis. Anyways, I guess he fucked me at his. I don’t remember. I also don’t remember getting home. That’s the story.” He throws down his fork with a clatter and stands up, disappearing into the kitchen. Liam and Zayn share a look, raising their eyebrows.  
  
From the kitchen, he shouts, “How much was that breakfast, anyways? I’ll pay you back for it. You lads are too good to me. I don’t deserve you. I really don’t. How about a drink?” He emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of wine.  
  
“Louis, it’s not even  _noon_ yet,” Liam says.  
  
“You also gotta date, tonight, mate,” Zayn says, debating whether or not to take the bottle away from him. “Maybe you should clean this place up, yeah? And be, you know, sober. For your date.”  
  
“Will he really care, though? I mean, really? If I’m drunk and dirty. I don’t think he will. He’s not going to like me. He’s going to learn that I’m in porn and think I’m a horrible slut. And if he doesn’t find out right away he’ll know just by looking at me because I am, in fact, a horrible slut. Now, would you like a drink or not? Otherwise I will just drink straight out the bottle.”  
  
Zayn sighs. “Louis, you’re being a prick.”  
  
“Add it to the list, then. I’m a drunk, a dirty slut, and a prick. I think all that adds up to perfect boyfriend material, yeah?”  
  
Liam’s expression is disappointed. “Zayn, go run him a bath, will you?”  
  
Zayn nods, pausing when he arrives at the door to the bathroom. He looks back at Louis. “Do you even have a bath?”  
  
“Yes, but it’s filled with semen,” Louis snaps, picking at the rest of his breakfast.  
  
“Prick,” Zayn mumbles under his breath, but goes to fix his bath, regardless.  
  
“Louis? Talk to Daddy Liam. Please?”  
  
“You can’t refer to yourself as Daddy Liam, it’s weird.”  
  
“I’m just trying to help!”  
  
“I know, and you’re doing a wonderful job. I’m just feeling a little...smothered.”  
  
Liam stands up, snatching away the rest of Louis’s breakfast and stacking it on top of his precariously overcrowded trash. “Oh, you’re feeling smothered, are you? Cool. Excellent. I’ll just back off then. Zayn and I both. We’ll just go and leave, maybe visit in a week or two, make sure you’re still alive.”  
  
“Liam...”  
  
“What, Louis? What is it? If you act like a fucking child, I’m going to treat you like a fucking child. You clearly can’t take of yourself. Or perhaps you can, but you won’t, ‘cause you went and got this ridiculous idea that you’re a worthless slut--”  
  
“I’m fine, okay!” Louis interjects, pleading. “I’m fine. I’m sorry, okay, I don’t mean to do this, I don’t  _want_ you to feel like you have to take care of me. I’ll -- I’ll clean up, alright? I will, and I’ll feed myself, and I’ll go on this date with this nice boy, who probably deserves much better than me, but I’ll try, okay?”  
  
“But I want you to do it  _for you,_ not for me. Louis, Zayn and I just want you to be happy, okay? If you really don’t want to go on this date, you don’t have to. We just thought...I dunno, it might be nice to meet someone outside of porn. Like a real, proper date. Not another one of your little sexcapades, okay?”  
  
“Liam, you just said ‘sexcapades.’”  
  
“I know, I know, and I instantly regretted it.”  
  
Louis's mouth twists at the corner. “Will you help me pick out an outfit?”  
  
Liam claps his hands together. “Yes! Of course I will! And I’ll help you clean up! This place will be beautiful!  _You_ will be beautiful! Donald will be beautiful!”  
  
“Where am I meeting him, anyways?”  
  
Zayn re-enters Louis’s living room. “That place near the bridge. Italian place, it’s like moderately fancy. We went there with your mum, once.”  
  
“Right, I don’t remember that at all.”  
  
“Well, you were very drunk. But so was your mum, so I think it was fine.”  
  
“Oy. Good genes, that.”  
  
Liam just snorts and starts picking up trash.   
  
Three hours later, they’re still going. They dig out all the garbage bags they can find under Louis’s sink. Soon enough they’re filled to bursting with all of Louis’s perverse waste -- Liam unearths at least 20 empty Coronas from under Louis’s couch, plus a used condom, a film ticket stub, a deflated football, a dozen crumpled receipts, a flip flop, a cigarette bud, a playbill, and an unopened Twix bar, which Louis immediately starts to eat.   
  
His bedroom is worse. “Louis, you do realize that you actually have to wash your sheets? And change them. Like, at least twice a month. And really, with your lifestyle, practically every night,” Liam admonishes.   
  
“You don’t know my life.”  
  
“Oh but I do! It’s all over your sheets, mate. If we had a black light right now I think I’d pass out. I count one, two, three, let’s see, that’s four come stains. And that’s blood.” Liam inspects the stain closer. “Yep, that’s definitely blood."  
  
“I got my period,” Louis snaps.  
  
“Oy! You’ve got used gum under here!” Liam cries, lifting up Louis’s mattress.  
  
“I was saving it for later!”  
  
“How you get people to fuck you in this disgusting place, I have no idea--”  
  
“I’ll explain it to you. It’s really quite simple: We both get terribly fucked up to the point of no return. We lose restraint. Our inhibitions lower. We become desperately horny and prepared to rut wherever is most convenient at the time. The end.”  
  
“When was the last time you even had a sober fuck?”  
  
“Yesterday. When I was being filmed for the pleasure of angry, closeted homosexuals everywhere.”  
  
“Fine. A sober fuck that  _wasn’t_ for porn,” Liam sighs, exasperated.  
  
“Fucked if I knew. Last year, maybe?”  
  
Liam shakes his head. “Well, you’re not getting drunk tonight.”  
  
“And why, Sir Liam, is that?”  
  
“Well you want to actually have a good date, don’t you?”  
  
“And how do you propose I do that if I’m sober?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Liam sputters. “Louis, drinking would be a bad idea, tonight. Come on, man. You know this.”  
  
“In fact, I don’t know that. Nobody likes sober Louis. I don’t like sober Louis. Drunk Louis is better. Drunk Louis is the life of the party, and he’s fun, and people want to fuck him.”  
  
Zayn peaks his head out from the bathroom. “Mate, you’re talking about yourself in the third person again.”  
  
“Louis will do as he pleases!” Louis cries.   
  
“Lou, we didn’t set you up for you to get laid, again. We set you up to have a nice, sober date with this nice, attractive man, who doesn’t know about your career, or your reputation, or anything. And you promised you’d be good!”  
  
“Fine, I’ll be  _good._ I’ll be a good boy,” Louis grumbles. “ _Daddy_ ,” he adds spitefully, and Liam blushes.   
  
“Louis, I mean it -- if you’re really that worked up about it, you don’t have to go, no one’s forcing you. I just thought it’d be nice--”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know. And I  _appreciate_  it,” Louis assures him, clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly. “Zayn, how’s it coming?”  
  
“It’s coming wet and sticky. Why the fuck can’t you put  _caps_ on things? Fucking toothpaste on everything, and hair gel, and your creepy baby oil. And this! What is this!” Zayn demands, pointing accusingly at a giant vibrator. “And why do you need 11 different bottles of lube? The fuck --” He sniffs. “Strawberry. You  _twat._  And why is there a bottle of chocolate syrup down here?” He throws away a disposable razor, an empty bottle of cologne, and women’s conditioner. “Louis, explain this.”  
  
“I like how it smells.”  
  
“Jesus Christ,  _what the hell is this?_ ” Zayn bellows, gingerly picking up a bar of soap that has been carefully and deliberately sculpted into the shape of a penis.   
  
“I get bored,” Louis shrugs, throwing his arm cheekily around Zayn’s shoulder. He lets go immediately with a squeal of delight when he finds a wine bottle under his sink.  
  
“And what’s that for? Emergencies?”   
  
Louis ignores him with a disappointed sigh, peering inside the bottle. “It’s empty.”  
  
“You’re disgusting.”  
  
Liam comes into the bathroom. “Well, lads, I think we finally tamed the beast. The kitchen was actually surprisingly easy, because I don’t think you ever actually use it. Also your fridge has literally nothing but extremely old takeout and beer inside. And you have more liquor in your cabinets than plates, or bowls, or silverware. I’m taking you shopping.”  
  
“Fine, fine, but not today--”  
  
“Well, obviously.  _You_ ’ve got a date to prepare for!” Liam says, rubbing his hands together. “Come on.” He shoves Louis back into the bedroom. “Now that your clothes are hanging in your closet properly, we can actually examine your wardrobe.”  
  
Louis picks up his braces off the dresser. “What about these, can I wear them?”  
  
“No, those make you look like a stripper.”  
  
Louis pulls a face but concedes anyways. Together, Liam and Zayn assemble an appropriate outfit -- a rather feminine, dark-grey sweater that Louis objects to initially but Liam insists it makes his collarbones look “delicious,” and a pair of dark red trousers that fit tight across his bum. “Might as well show off your best  _asset_ ,” Zayn says, clapping him on the shoulder with an infuriatingly self-satisfied grin.   
  
“Oh, because I’ve never heard  _that one_  before.”  
  
“Don’t be smart, Lou. Now go on, get in the shower. I would’ve run that bath but I’m afraid of the pee stain in there.”  
  
Louis grabs a towel from the closet and goes to the bathroom, but not before pointing at them threateningly, warning, “Don’t you dare fuck in here while I’m in the shower.”  
  
“You couldn’t  _pay_ me to have sex in your filthy bed. There’s no telling what venereal diseases are marinating in those sheets of yours.”  
  
“Make yourselves useful and  _wash_ them, then!” Louis shouts before shutting the door.  
  
By the time he emerges in a billow of steam, fresh-faced and smelling of suspiciously girly hair products, Liam and Zayn have managed to successfully change his sheets and re-make his bed.   
  
Louis tugs on the clothes they pick out and examines himself in the full-length mirror.   
  
“Lou, you look dashing,” Liam assures him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Zayn steps up behind Louis, rubbing his shoulders. He sprays cologne in the dip between Louis’s collarbone.   
  
“There. Now you smell more like a man.”  
  
Louis rolls his eyes, but his smile is sincere. The three of them make a pretty picture in the mirror -- Zayn has his head on Louis’s shoulder, one hand locked around Louis’s waist and the other tightly clutching Liam.   
  
“Seriously though,” Liam says, talking to Louis’s reflection in the mirror. “There’s no pressure, okay. You don’t have to see this guy. If Donald’s a twat, get the fuck out. Come to our apartment and we’ll watch a movie and have a cuddle.”  
  
“What do I say if he asks about my work?” Louis asks nervously.  
  
“I dunno. Say you’re an actor. It’s technically the truth,” Zayn offers. He presses one last kiss to Louis’s neck and steers him to the door.   
  
“You’re going to be fine.”  
  
“I feel weird.”  
  
“Mate, that’s called sobriety.”  
  
Louis elbows him in the ribs. He checks his pockets for his phone, keys, wallet. “I think I need my emergency flask.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Liam says sternly, shoving Louis out the door.   
  
“Are you just going to wait here in my apartment, then?” Louis raises his eyebrows.  
  
“We’re doing your laundry, you ungrateful little twat. Plus we want to be here when you get back.”  
  
“What if he’s with me?”  
  
“Then we’ll hide in your closet with the door cracked and watch you make love,” Zayn says dryly. “Buh bye now, sweet cheeks.”  
  
They shut the door. Louis walks to the elevator, presses the button with a deep breath, and exhales. 

-

He gets to restaurant ten minutes early, wondering nervously if that makes him lame or impressive. Liam and Zayn described Donald as “tall, with dark curly hair, and a fit body.” He looks around the restaurant, and spots Donald leaning over the bar.   
  
Louis admires him from behind. He’s got a nice lanky body, and the way he’s bending over the counter highlights the steep bow of his shifting shoulder blades, muscles bunching under his loose-fitting shirt. He doesn’t have much of an ass, but he has legs that go for miles and good fashion sense: dark jeans and a loose-fitting henley shirt that looks really soft and hangs off his muscles nicely. Louis takes a deep breath, fixing his fringe quickly before tapping Donald on the shoulder.   
  
He turns around, slowly -- which is unexpected; Louis was afraid he might’ve taken him by surprise. Donald’s even nicer from the front -- he’s got wide green eyes, a gorgeous mouth Louis is prepared to stick his dick in, and a lovely jaw line. He frowns at Louis, surprised, and then his mouth slowly curves into a bemused smile. He has a dimple. Louis swallows.  
  
“Donald, right?” Louis asks. “I’m Louis.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Louis,” Donald says. He’s got a deep, languid sort of voice. He smiles at Louis, like he’s amused by him, and sticks out his hand. Louis blinks at it for a moment, before realizes he’s supposed to shake it. Donald’s smile grows an inch longer. “But I don’t think I’m who you’re supposed to meet. Sorry, mate.”  
  
“What -- what do you mean? I thought, erm...well didn’t Danielle tell you--?”  
  
“Who’s Danielle?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’ve no idea who that is, or who you are.”  
  
“Oh no,” Louis babbles, realization dawning on him. “You’re not called Donald at all are you, you’re  _Glen._ See, like, that’s what we originally thought in the beginning--”  
  
“My name’s Harry.”  
  
Louis stops. “H-Harry?”  
  
“Yeah. Sorry, man.” He looks Louis up and down, quite obviously. Louis flushes.   
  
“So, just to clear things up for my own sake, because I’m clearly a complete and utter idiot, you are not called Donald, or Glen, and you don’t know Danielle, or Liam, and you’re not supposed to be meeting me -- I’m Louis -- for a date.”  
  
Harry --  _not Donald_ \-- smiles slowly. Louis finds that he’s quickly becoming irritated by how attractive he is.  
  
“Er...” Someone says behind Louis, who turns around quickly, caught off guard. It’s a tall, curly-haired, fit-bodied man. Donald. “You’re Louis, right?” Donald says. He furrows his eyebrows at Harry, who just smiles wider, looking thoroughly amused.   
  
“Yes! I am Louis! And  _you_ are Donald! How exceedingly convenient!” Louis exclaims, smiling brightly up at Donald.   
  
“And you are...?” Donald starts to ask, looking directly at Harry.  
  
“He doesn’t matter, I don’t know him, we shouldn’t bother him,” Louis advises quickly, taking Donald by the hand and leading them back over to the hostess stand. Louis sends one last apologetic look over his shoulder to Harry, who is staring at him so intensely that Louis has to suppress a shiver.   
  
The hostess leads Donald and Louis to their table, where Louis can finally get a good look at him. He has grey eyes, no dimples, no blinding smile, and no cock-sucker lips. He tries and fails not to glance at Harry, who is still standing at the bar.   
  
“Sorry, that was all a bit weird,” Louis says, smiling nervously. “Being set up in general is a bit weird, to be honest. I’ve er...heard really excellent things about you. From Liam and Danielle, I mean. You’re a student, right?” Louis rattles on, his hands twisting anxiously under the table.  
  
Donald nods. “Yeah, studying sports medicine.”  
  
“And how’s that?”  
  
“Not so bad -- lots of work, but it’s cool.”  
  
Their waitress arrives to take their order, and Louis panics quietly. Does he order a lot of food and look fat? Or a little and look self-conscious? He settles on spaghetti, but regrets it the moment the waitress leaves, remembering how messy spaghetti can be. He looks up from his panicking to find Donald staring at him curiously. He smiles, praying that it doesn’t look too forced.  
  
“You look a bit familiar,” Donald says finally.  
  
“Do I?” Louis says, panicking quietly.  
  
“Yeah. What do you do again?”  
  
“I’m um," Louis clears his throat, pink-cheeked. "I'm an actor.”  
  
“Oh, that’s cool. Been in anything I might’ve heard of?”  
  
“Probably not...mostly small parts, a commercial or two, I did this thing for TOMS, and I’ve been in a few plays.” Louis surprises himself; the lies are coming extremely easily.   
  
They chat about acting for a while, and Louis concludes that Donald is very attractive, very nice, and very dull. He glances at the bar again, against his will. Harry is chatting up a woman, who must be at least four years older than him, to apparent success. He has a beer in front of him, his fingers sliding enticingly around the bottle. His hands are huge, Louis notes. And of course, that is the moment Harry chooses to make eye contact with him. He stares at Louis intensely, a smirk forming at his lips, and then slowly tears his eyes away to look back at the woman.  
  
Donald just keeps on talking, apparently oblivious. Their food finally arrives, and Louis tries to eat as daintily as possible, overly self-conscious of the potential mess. He never spills anything, but he does accidentally make eye contact with Harry again while licking a bit of sauce off his pinky, his tongue lingering at the corner of his mouth. He turns red, realizing it looks like he’s trying to seduce him. His eyes flicker away, back to Donald, smiling awkwardly. Donald is talking about tennis, or his professors, or something else that Louis tries very hard to be interested in but just can’t quite find it within him.   
  
When the check finally arrives, Donald takes it smoothly. Louis snatches it from him playfully, sticking his credit card in, but Donald’s hand closes on his wrist, pulls out his credit card, and slides it back into Louis’s hand.  
  
“I’ve got this one,” he winks.  
  
“Well aren’t you just a perfect gentleman,” Louis returns. It’s all very flirtatious, and Louis thinks that, dull as Donald might be, he really is quite stunning, and funny enough, and sweet.   
  
“Hang on,” Louis says as they stand up, Donald pocketing his credit card when it’s returned to him. He glances at Harry out of the corner of his eye. He’s still at the bar, still chatting up some beautiful, busty brunette, and still glancing at Louis far too often for it to be purely coincidental. “Let’s grab a drink before we leave.”  
  
“Okay,” Donald shrugs. They amble over to the bar. Louis leans over and asks for two glasses of wine. He can feel a pair of eyes admiring the view -- he’s just not sure who the eyes belong to. He hands one glass to Donald and takes a long, lingering sip from his own. He can’t help but stare at Harry over the rim of his cup. It almost makes him choke on his wine -- Harry’s eyes look hot and dark under the dim light of the bar. He leans over to whisper something in the woman’s ear, but his eyes remain locked on Louis’s.   
  
“Louis?”  
  
Louis swallows quickly, startled. “Sorry, yes?”  
  
“Oh, I just asked what kind of wine you ordered.”  
  
“Sorry, it’s Pinot Noir. Is it okay?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Actually, I went to this wine-tasting once, with my sister, like 8 months ago I think...she just graduated so I thought we'd go to the south of France or something, like as my gift to her and...”  
  
Donald continues talking, and Louis smiles and nods and brushes his hand on his arm at all the right moments. He takes his last sip, sparing one last glance at Harry before leaning in close and asking Donald if he’d like to go back with him to his flat.  
  
“I’d...I’d love that, yeah.”   
  
Louis pays the tab and Donald leads Louis out of the restaurant. Louis can’t help but glance over his shoulder one last time at Harry who, of course, is already staring. Louis swears Harry winks at him -- though it could simply be a trick of the light. A shiver slinks down his spine anyways, coiling in his gut.   
  
Louis sends Liam a quick text on the walk home: “Hey Li? If you’re still in my flat, kindly get the fuck out. I’m getting laid tonight. ;) Btw, Donald’s a sexy gem. Good work, sir.”   
  
He blows Donald on his newly-cleaned couch, and rides him on his newly washed-sheets, relishing the feel of Donald’s big, callused hands -- reverent and roaming, streaking sweat across the bow of Louis’s spine, thumbing bruises into his hips, fingering him open carefully and fucking into him like Louis is some sort of god-send. He never stops kissing Louis -- kissing along the column of his throat to the knob of his collarbone to his nipples. He kisses Louis’s hands and the inside of his wrist and bites gently into his shoulder. Louis throws his head back and takes it. He feels loved. Appreciated. He throws away the condom this time and thanks Donald, afterwards. Donald thanks him back.   
  
The next morning, he makes Donald tea and pours him a bowl of cereal that he’s quite sure Liam bought for him.   
  
“Sorry, love. I can’t cook for shit,” he says, kissing his forehead and sitting down at the table beside him, digging into his own bowl.   
  
When Donald leaves, it’s with Louis’s number stored in his phone and a promise of a second date, “soon, very soon” and a playful smile. When the door closes, Louis is still smiling, and he calls Liam immediately.  
  
“Donald is wonderful,” he says the moment he hears Liam pick up the phone. He doesn’t hear anything for a brief second, and then he gets an earful of squealing.  
  
“Zayn! Zayn get your arse in your here! I’ll put him on speaker.”  
  
Louis waits patiently.   
  
“Oy, I’m here,” Zayn says, sounding like he just woke up.   
  
“Louis, say it again,” Liam prompts.  
  
“Donald is a  _doll_.  
  
“Tell me everything.”  
  
“Well we got to the restaurant and he was really fit, like,  _really_ fit and I was afraid of making a mess or just a damn fool of myself but he seemed to actually like me! Like he genuinely seemed interested! And he talked about himself mostly, for obvious reasons...oh, he did ask about my work, and I said I was an actor...gave the performance of my life, really, for that bit. Clearly my skills are not being appropriately put to use. Anyways, he was a proper gentleman, paid the check and everything. And then I bought us drinks --  _just a glass of wine each,_ Liam, I can hear your fucking panties twisting from here, you knob -- and then we went back to mine and had sex in my pretty, clean flat. And this morning we had breakfast. And it was all lovely.”  
  
“See?  _See?_ I told you, Louis!” Liam says proudly. “I told you that you are wonderful and that he would love you and that  _he_ would be wonderful...to be honest I didn’t quite expect you to fuck him--”  
  
“Liam, don’t you know our boy at all?” Zayn cuts him. “Louis doesn’t fuck on the first date, he fucks before the date even starts--”  
  
“Zayn, next time I see you, remind me that I owe you a slap.”  
  
“Oh whatever, Lou -- I’m happy for you. Really, mate. This is fucking  _excellent.”_  
  
“I guess I should thank you guys, really. I didn’t realize just how much I needed to meet someone who doesn’t know about the porn. Like, at first I felt a bit weird about lying but when we had sex, it was so worth it. He was really good and  _nice_ and respectful and it was quite refreshing, to be honest.”  
  
They talk a little more, about Donald and how it felt to fuck in a clean apartment. After he hangs up, Louis showers, gets dressed, and goes to the supermarket, finally stocking up on normal food, and cleaning supplies, and more garbage bags because he, Liam, and Zayn had used practically all of them. He gets bread and fruit and ice cream and milk and some frozen dinners and pasta and more condoms. He eats alone that night, and watches a film, but he doesn’t feel  _lonely_  for a change, for the first time in what feels like months.   
  
The next day he goes for coffee with Donald -- exchanging a quick, sweet kiss and sharing a giant muffin -- before going into the studio to pick up a new script. He invites Donald over again that night, and they fuck in the shower, and in the kitchen, and on his bed. The third time they have sex, Louis fucks him, preparing him carefully and appreciating the length of Donald’s legs, kissing him slowly while he enters him. It’s sweet and intimate and Donald spends the night again, curled around Louis while the television hums comfortingly in the background.   
  
It’s the second night in a row that Louis spends un-lonely. He could get used to this.  
  
It’s like this for a month -- dinner dates, visiting Donald at uni, bringing each other coffee, sex in Donald’s dorm, sex in a bathroom at a bar, dancing together at a night club. Donald texts him every day -- nothing overly cutesy, just funny things he thinks of, little pictures of stupid shit that he takes on his phone, things that make Louis feel happy and noticed. They go to the movies and sit in the back row and make out and laugh the whole time, feeling like teenagers. They go to a Chinese restaurant and get kicked out for shooting spit balls at their neighbors. They call in for pizza delivery under stupid made-up names, or sometimes famous people. They go the theatre and to concerts and to little improv comedy shows at Donald’s school. They go to Louis’s flat and fuck everywhere, on every available surface -- only this time, Louis actually cleans up the mess the next day. He throws away his receipts, he washes his dishes, he cleans his shower, and he washes his sheets. He tries to teach himself how to cook. He learns how to be a good boyfriend.  
  
After their fifth date, he tells his mum. She knows about his career, and while of course she wishes he would do something else, she understands. As a single mom with four little girls plus Louis, it hasn’t exactly been an easy road for her financially. If there’s anything positive Louis can say of porn, it’s that it pays. Simon runs a good business; his films may be the typical cheesy, sleazy fare you’d expect, but the production values are relatively high, his models are attractive across the board, advertising is strong, and he’s stern on pirating. Louis, Liam, and Zayn all make very decent money. And a good chunk of Louis’s goes to his family. He keeps enough to sustain his lifestyle, but it doesn’t take much. His mum understands about his problems with relationships as well; of course, she doesn’t know all the sordid details of his promiscuity, but she knows how hard it is for Louis to find people who aren’t just interested in him for sex. He talks to her for hours, about everything: how Zayn and Liam are such amazing friends, how they set him up, how attractive Donald is, how sweet, how much of a gentlemen, how  _kindly_ and _respectfully_ he treats Louis. After a month, she drives up to London from her home in Doncaster to meet him.  
  
Louis and Donald take her to the same restaurant from their first date. She clicks with Donald immediately, and he treats her like a princess, calls her “ma’am” and showers her with compliments, about herself and Louis.   
  
“Louis says he’s always wanted to act,” Donald says. “Please tell me you have embarrassing home videos of plays he was in when he was little or something.”   
  
She lies just as well as her son. She stays in Louis’s guest room that night, and she and Louis huddle on the couch after their “date” of sorts.   
  
“He’s perfect,” she gushes, crushing him in a hug.   
  
“I know!” He says, muffled into her shoulder. “It’s like he was designed by the government or something to be perfect for me. Yesterday he told me his favorite film is  _Grease._ I like, wracked my brain, trying to think of a time I could’ve let it slip that  _Grease_ is my favorite, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t. He’s actually just my soulmate.”  
  
“And he doesn’t know about--?”  
  
“No. No way. I’ve kept that well under wraps. Nice job, tonight, by the way. Should’ve pursued actual careers in acting, you and me.”  
  
“Well, you did want that once, I remember.”  
  
“Still want it,” Louis admits, shrugging. “But...I just don’t know how I could, now. No one’d take me seriously. I never thought...I never thought I’d be this big, you know. When Simon found me, said he was a director, I just thought...well, hey, I’m struggling, and my family’s struggling, and it’d only be a one time thing. But I was...good at it, stupid as it is. And it was easy. And I was making so much money and then it just sort of consumed everything until it was too late to get out. And now...now I’ve found something that makes me want to stop. I had to do a shoot last week and it was so  _weird_ to be with someone else. I felt like...like I was cheating, even though I knew it was just a job. That sex means nothing, you know? But, like, now I have Donald and when I’m with him he makes me feel so important and loved and  _special,_ like I’m really worth something to him. But I just...don’t know what I could  _do_ now. Like my name has this whole dirty _life_ attached to it. I don’t know if I could handle that following me around everywhere for the rest of my life, you know? And I’m definitely not going to be able to hide it forever.”  
  
“Shhhh,” she hushes him, pulling him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Listen, Boo Bear. You’ve nothing to worry about. Right now you’ve got a great man who thinks the sun shines out your arse. If he finds out, he won’t care. Give him some credit, Lou!”  
  
“But I’m  _lying_ to him.”  
  
“And he’ll understand that you were just scared. Everything works out the way it’s meant to.”  
  
It’s empty, open-ended bullshit that Louis knows means nothing but it’s meant to comfort him and it does. He and his mum drink their tea and watch re-runs of  _Doctor Who_ until at least 3 AM, when he falls asleep on her shoulder. He calls Donald the next morning after she leaves, assuring him that his mum is in love with him, and he would like to thank him for being such a good boyfriend that night, in Louis’s flat, for some celebratory sexing. Donald, of course, obliges.   
  
He even gets along with Liam and Zayn, the overprotective twats. Liam texts him almost everyday, begging Louis for a double date with them. Donald is charming as ever, offering to pick up the tab, and even managing to win over Zayn. They go to a bar after dinner for a few rounds of beer (“You have to prove that you’re fun as well, babe,” Louis whispers.)   
  
Zayn texts him at the end of the night with a simple, “Keep this one.” Louis shows it to Donald proudly, and they fuck on Louis’s kitchen counter while Donald drunkenly tries to make midnight breakfast, Louis giggling madly into his shoulder.   
  
When the third month comes to a close, Louis has grown quite attached to loving and being loved. For Donald’s birthday, Louis devises a giant surprise party that is a huge success, earning him the approval of Donald’s friends and and a semi-exhibitionist blow job on the balcony from the birthday boy himself. “I wanted to come out in a cake or something, like a stripper,” Louis whispers intimately in his ear. “Or do it all Marilyn Monroe-style.”   
  
“You did perfect, babe,” Donald whispers, before picking him up and fucking him against the glass.   
  
Louis still has shoots; when Donald asks, Louis says he’s going to auditions. When Donald asks how they went, Louis just says “eh, kind of lousy, to be honest” or “it’s a shit part, anyways, and the director seemed like a twat” or “better luck next time.” Donald never pries too deeply.   
  
A week before his birthday, Zayn and Liam whisk him away to the beach (without Donald; Zayn and Liam claim they want Louis “all to themselves” on this birthday occasion.) Louis misses him a lot, but Donald calls him everyday, showering him with loving messages that make Louis feel safe where he stands. Over the past three months, he’s become quite accustomed to this feeling. He smiles when he falls asleep and he’s happy when we wakes up. On Sunday morning, the last morning of their vacation, Zayn and Liam leave early to surf while the sun rises. Meanwhile, Louis fixes himself toast and tea and checks his e-mail, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder, chatting with his mum while he types. He smiles when he sees that his most recent unread e-mail is from Donald.  
  
When he opens it, his heart rises to his throat. He chokes painfully, phone clattering the ground, and shuts his computer immediately, barely refraining from hurling into the wall. He stabs the heel of his hand into his eyes, as if crushing his tear ducts might stop them from burning. He can hear his mum’s voice from the floor but he can’t bring himself to answer it.  
  
It’s a link to a video on some free, sleazy porn site. Louis doesn’t have to watch it to know what it is -- the thumbnail contains all he needs to see. He is riding a man while sucking another man’s cock, and the headline is something trashy and cheap-sounding about twinks and spit-roasting. Louis claps his hands over his mouth, feeling he might be sick.   
  
With a shaking hand, he finally picks up the phone. “Mum?” His voice shakes on the line, sounding wet and raw.  
  
“Lou? Lou, babe, are you okay? What’s going on?”  
  
“I’m such an idiot,” Louis whispers, and somewhere along the sentence his words dissolve into tears and he’s crying pitifully into the phone. His mum gives him an earful of adoration and sweet things and love, despite having no idea what made Louis upset.   
  
Finally, she coaxes it out of him.   
  
“He found it,” Louis whispers, his voice cracking.  
  
“He found...? Oh. Oh, fuck.”  
  
Louis cries harder.   
  
“Well how did he find it?” She asks, as gently as she can, trying not to sound panicked.  
  
“I don’t -- I don’t know, I shut my computer...” Louis admits tearfully. He takes a deep breath and opens it again. The horrible video is still there, which he exits out of quickly.   
  
“He sent me a link to one of my videos in an e-mail.”  
  
“What an arsehole! He just sent you a video of your porn without any explanation?!”  
  
Louis goes back to the e-mail. "I didn’t even read it.” He clears his throat, and reads, “ _So my mate found something interesting. ‘Louis Lucas,’ huh? Suppose this explains why you’re such a good fuck. Don’t exactly want such thoroughly-used goods though. Thanks for lying to me. Please don’t call.”_  
  
He makes it through the e-mail without crying but soon starts up again. “Mum? Mum, I’m gonna go, okay, please, I’ll -- I’ll call you later, alright?”   
  
He sobs harder than he thinks he’s ever sobbed before, near-hyperventilating. He needs a drink, he needs something, he needs Zayn, he needs Liam, he needs  _Donald,_ needs him, the need burns up his insides, and he can hardly breathe, and his cheeks feel so  _hot_ and they  _hurt--_  
  
Liam is calling. His mum must’ve called him. Louis answers, trying to clear the traces of crying from his voice but it’s impossible. He doesn’t want to scare Liam but he can’t help but cry into the phone.  
  
“Lou? Your mum called me, she explained everything--”  
  
Louis tries to talk to him, but his crying is make his throat hurt and he can barely string a coherent sentence together without blubbering pathetically.  
  
“Zayn and I are coming over right now,” Liam assures him. Louis hears Liam urgently whisper ‘ _I’ll explain in a second, shhh, Boo needs us’_ in the background to Zayn. “Hold tight, babe. And hide your computer. You don’t need that.”  
  
Louis hangs up and obliges, wiping his face furiously with his sleeves. Liam and Zayn let themselves in, finding Louis curled up on the couch looking miserable. They both envelop him in tight hugs, kissing his hair and holding him. Zayn gives Donald a sound verbal thrashing, gesticulating wildly with his hands as he acts all the horrible ways he would like to inflict pain on him, until Louis finally smiles.  
  
“I just feel like such a stupid cunt,” Louis whispers later, still curled up on the couch. Zayn is next to him, wishing Louis didn’t look so  _small_ like this. Rage curls inside his chest, bleeding into his muscles -- he wants to call Donald, wants to scream at him, wants  _Louis_ to scream at him, but Louis looks like all the fight’s been drained from him.   
  
“Of course he would find out eventually. It’s just that --” his breath hitches, and he raises his eyes to Zayn’s, looking lost.   
  
Liam buries his head in Louis’s shoulder. Louis rarely lets them take care of him, always plastering on a brave face, voice going louder and wilder while his insides dim, while he lets the things that crush him burn quietly in his throat, demanding and unattended to.  
  
“It’s just that I really thought he  _loved_ me.” Another tear slips out, and Liam removes his head from Louis’s shoulder to kiss it away.  
  
“I’m sorry -- I’m fucking blubbering all over both of you like a lunatic--”  
  
“Stop apologizing,” Liam says quietly.   
  
“But, Liam...” Louis whispers, hiding his face in Liam’s arm. “Liam, what if nobody ever loves me.” Liam can feel his arm flush warm with Louis’s tears, and he tangles his fingers in Louis’s hair, heart pounding madly in his temples and behind his eyes, burning. “I just really don’t...see how anyone could. I’m -- I’m --”  
  
“Shhh, Louis,  _please don’t_ , please,” Zayn hushes, curling around Louis and burying his face in the top of his head, dropping little kisses into his hair.  
  
They sit together in silence, huddled together on Louis’s couch. There’s nothing to say. They’ve spent hours exercising all their creative faculties designing horrible hypothetical  punishments for Donald. They’ve spent hours lying to Louis, telling him  _maybe he did love you_ and  _you’ll find someone_ and  _you feel like this now, but you won’t forever_. He feels cold and ugly and thrown away and  _worthless,_ stupid and unlovable and he almost hates Liam’s hand on his arm and Zayn’s mouth on his cheek, feeling deep in his bones that he doesn’t deserve it.  
  
Still, he asks, “Will -- will you please stay with me tonight?” He hates how meek and scared he sounds that they might leave him.   
  
“Lou, I’m not planning on leaving until the feds drag me away,” Zayn whispers into his shoulder. “They’ll have to tase me. And even then, no one’s taking this Bradford bad boy away without a fight. Least of all  _you._ I’ll move in if I have to. You’re not getting rid of me.”  
  
Liam squeezes Louis’s hand and pulls his head into his lap. He falls asleep with them curled tightly around him. He hasn’t gotten far too used to the un-lonely feeling. He wasn’t ready to abandon it quite yet.


	2. The Singer

It’s midnight on a Wednesday and Harry Styles is about to get laid.   
  
“And there I was,” Harry says lowly, leaning in to the girl’s ear conspiratorially, catching a whiff of her fruity perfume. He’s been working on her for about twenty minutes now; he probably could’ve fucked in her the club bathroom 10 minutes ago if he wanted but he’d rather keep it classy, work her up right and take her to a proper bed. “High as a kite, taking a giant piss right smack in the center of my school’s football field at 2 in the morning. And then I saw him -- the security guard, that is -- he was just a big, scary shadow at the top of the stadium. I was so happy I couldn’t even muster a single fuck to give though. I think I just went even stupider -- howled at the moon like some kind of wolf. I thought about running but it just seemed useless at that point. Probably should’ve done, looking back now.” He winks. “They didn’t expel me though. Not for that. Put me on academic probation or something for a while...after like three more months though, I just dropped out. Music’s my passion.” Harry makes sure to emphasize the word  _passion,_ feeling the weight of it in his mouth before he lets it drip off his tongue. “I just wanted to give it all the attention it deserved, you know?”  
  
The girl -- Alisha -- moves closer to him instinctually, her eyes dark over the rim of her glass. Harry leans away, stretching the long expanse of his torso obscenely. Her eyes rake up and down his body, grinning. He downs the rest of his drink in one long gulp without ever taking his eyes off her. He licks the last drop of alcohol off his lips, then grabs her hand and moves in close again.   
  
“Yours or mine?”  
  
“Yours,” she replies with a wink, taking him by the hand and grinning at him over her shoulder. He follows her out the bar into the crowded London streets. They walk hand in hand, passing couples hailing down taxis, burly men laughing too loudly with beer rolling around in their bellies, and a few young people who look like students, who nod at Harry as he passes.   
  
He hears one whisper, “ _That’s Harry Styles,”_ and bites down on a grin. He feels the girl’s shoulder brush his as they walk, oblivious to the attention he’s receiving. Even though it’s night time, the streetlights are bright, and he can actually see her better in this lighting. She’s dark-skinned, and tall, with a mess of black curls that’s even wilder than his own, and a confident smile that assures Harry she won’t voice any clingy protests when he leaves her silently the next morning.   
  
They’re crossing an alleyway when he hears it -- dark, drunken laughter, and his own name, passing through the hidden stranger’s lips like something diseased. Harry pauses, throwing his arm around Alisha’s shoulder protectively. There are two men that emerge from the alley -- they appear to be in their mid-twenties, with short, stocky, muscular frames, mean, accusatory eyes and an inebriated carelessness that immediately puts Harry on guard.  
  
"You’re the faggy singer from the bar, aren’t you?” The smaller one asks. He has a sleeve of tattoos.   
  
“How creative of you,” Harry says lazily. “To just take “fag” and make it an adjective. Really nice work. Not very nice manners though to use such foul language in front of a lady.” He is highly conscious of her presence; he moves Alisha slightly behind him, hearing the quickness of her breathing.   
  
“Harry,  _leave it,_ ” she hisses. He nods to her, but the man interrupts him.  
  
“I just wanted her to know you’d prefer her pussy to be a man’s arse. That’s all, mate. I’m looking out for her feelings, really.”  
  
“You’re just all kinds of pleasant, aren’t you? Nice tattoos, by the way. Does Ed Hardy pay you personally to walk around looking like a tool?”  
  
“Are you threatening us?” The bigger one cuts in, cracking his knuckles in a way he probably thinks is menacing.  
  
Alisha tugs on his arm, but Harry can’t help himself. “Oh, am I “threatening” now? I thought I was  _faggy,_ ” he replies cheekily.  
  
“You’d better watch your smart mouth,  _faggot,_ before I rip off your dick with my teeth and feed it back it you.”  
  
Harry frowns, glancing between the two of them, looking mildly disgusted. “Mate, all I heard was ‘your dick’ and ‘my teeth.’ Sounds like someone’s having trouble protecting the integrity of their own heterosexuality.”  
  
“Sounds like you want the shit beaten out of you.”  
  
“One -- again, I applaud your creativity. Two -- I really wish you two nice men would  _stop_ swearing in front of this lovely young lady and also stop expressing such violent interest in touching my lithe, youthful body. It’s starting to make me uncomfortable--”  
  
The tattooed one slams his fist into Harry’s face. Alisha screams his name. He staggers back with a groan, shoving a hand under his nose to stem the gushing flow of blood. He flicks his hair out of his face and returns to his full height, smiling slowly. There’s blood in his teeth. He licks it off and takes a few lazy steps towards the men. “I really wish you hadn’t done that. It’s gonna be really difficult for me to play guitar tomorrow night with my knuckles all bruised up from your face.”  
  
He punches the tattooed one first, who falls against the wall, doubling over. He catches the tall one’s wrist before his punch can land, and slams his knee into his stomach. The guy lands heavily on his knees, then reaches for Harry’s ankles, outraged, but Harry steps away smoothly, landing another swift kick to his side. The tattooed one regains his strength, staggering forward and taking Harry in a vicious headlock. Harry cries out, feeling his neck twist painfully, and the guy manages to punch him in the stomach from this position. Harry stomps on his foot, and the man shouts in pain, letting Harry go from the shock of it. He can hear Alisha screaming furiously at him to leave, but he slams the side of his fist into the tattooed man’s face one last time, relishing the sick sound he makes when he falls to the ground.   
  
“You’re an idiot,” Alisha hisses as he ambles back to her, wearing a satisfied, bloody grin. His brow furrows.  
  
“I was protecting your honor,” he assures her, showing her his bloody knuckles, as if that will win her sympathies.  
  
“Well you shouldn’t have bothered,” she snaps, and with a flip of her pretty curls she stalks away in the other direction.  
  
“Wait -- Alisha!” Harry calls out. She throws him the finger over her shoulder. Harry pokes his tongue in his cheek, raising his eyebrows. Fuck.  
  
It turns out to be okay. He wanders into another bar -- someplace small, seedy, and unfamiliar -- where he finds a short, busty blonde girl who coos at his bloody nose and fawns over his knuckles and calls him  _brave_ and offers to clean him up at her flat. He smiles charmingly, accepting the offer. She blows him in the shower, and he fucks her senseless on her bedroom floor, and makes her waffles in the morning before he leaves with her phone number scribbled on the back of his hand. It’s raining outside, and the number fades away within minutes.   
  
He's only sad for a moment.  
  
\--  
  
“You look like shit, mate,” Niall says sympathetically when Harry shows up at his door.   
  
“I feel like shit,” Harry mumbles, crossing through the door way and collapsing gratefully on Niall’s couch. He hears Niall fussing in the kitchen behind him with the tea kettle. He emerges a few minutes later with a cup of tea for Harry, and a piece of pie for himself.  
  
“Niall, it’s like 10 in the morning.”  
  
“It’s never too early for pie,” Niall says seriously, taking an enormous bite. “So why so shitty?” He asks through his mouthful of food. Harry has had years of practice understanding decipher Niall’s food-speak, despite the fact that his Irish accent makes the task difficult enough already. “Hangover?”  
  
“Nah, it’s my hand.” Harry shows him his bruised knuckles.   
  
“Oy, that’s rough. Also I never aware until now of how freakish-looking your hands are.”  
  
“Why? What’s wrong with them?” Harry frowns, holding them out in front of him, scrutinizing.  
  
“They’re massive!”  
  
“Oh, that,” Harry says. “Yeah, it comes in  _handy_ , if you know what I mean.” He raises his eyebrows up and down with a goofy grin.   
  
Niall rolls his eyes. “So what happened anyways?”  
  
“I was um...gonna bring back this really fit girl, Alisha, but then these two drunk guys offended my delicate sensibilities with their viciously creative homophobic slurs. I had to protect my honor, of course.”  
  
“How’d they know you’re gay?”  
  
“I’m not  _gay,_ Niall, for the  _hundredth time._ ” Harry accompanies this with a silly smile, to assure Niall that he’s not actually offended. “I’m  _fluid._ ”  
  
“So you’re bi?”  
  
“I’m  _pan._ ”  
  
“Mate, I hate to break it to you, but you are neither a liquid nor are you a cooking utensil.”  
  
“You think you’re quite clever, don’t you?”  
  
Niall shrugs, wiping the crumbs off his mouth. “Not really. I do happen to think  _you’re_ really pretentious, though. But don’t worry, it’s endearing.”  
  
“Two big words in one sentiment. Nicely done, Nialler.”  
  
Niall slaps his head when he passes Harry on his way to return his plate to the kitchen sink.   
  
Harry turns on the television.  _Say Yes to the Dress_ is on, and he turns around to face Niall, who is fussing with the dishes.  
  
“Niall, I believe I’ve found some incriminating evidence pertaining to your secret ambition to be a drag queen. My, those are some pretty dresses!” Harry says flamboyantly, though his deep voice just makes him sound more perverse. “I feel like I understand you now.”  
  
“I wasn’t watching that! There was a football game earlier!”  
  
“On  _TLC_?” Harry raises an eyebrow.   
  
Niall blushes. Harry flips through the channels, commenting idly, “I wish there was a way to see someone’s TV history. Like that would be really useful. The television a person watches says a lot about them. For example...if you watch nothing but football, you’re a twat. If you watch Paula Deen, you’re fat.”  
  
“Hey!” Niall protests at first, but then smiles happily. “That rhymed.” Harry ignores him.  
  
“If you watch  _Dance Moms,_ you have a lot of rage--”  
  
He’s cut off when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a text from his manager, Nick. “Hey Niall, is it okay if we have practice here this afternoon? Nick says his kitchen’s getting renovated and it’s going to be really loud.”  
  
Niall shrugs. “Yeah. Neighbor’s might complain though, but nothing I can do about that.”  
  
“Excellent.” Harry quickly types his response. “Grimmy’s going to flip when he hears the new song.”  
  
“Did you tell him the idea about the David Bowie cover?”  
  
“Yes, and he nearly wet himself.”  
  
“I have great ideas.”  
  
“Yes, I know, Niall, you’re a prize.”  
  
He shoves himself off the couch and wanders into Niall’s bedroom. “Hey can I borrow your running shoes? I want to go the gym before practice.”  
  
“Er, yeah. Just don’t make them smelly.”  
  
He pats Niall on the shoulder before leaving again. “I’ll just shower here when I get back,” he says.   
  
By the time 5:00 rolls around, Harry has exercised, jerked off, showered, practiced, had lunch, and called his mum. He gets a text from Nick informing him that a producer might be stopping by his gig that night, and to be on his A-game.  
  
He throws his phone at Niall, showing him the text. They look at each other significantly. Harry’s been wanting to get signed for ages now. He’s had a few offers, but none of them sat quite right with him. When he’d whispered to Alisha that music was his  _passion,_ he might have been working her up, but he did mean it. He’d never found any lover he liked more than his guitar, or his mic, or performing on stage. He’d never met a girl who he’d rather stay in bed with all day than dance around his flat in his underwear writing songs. He’d never met any boy who made him want to put down his guitar.   
  
The thing is -- Harry Styles isn’t an asshole. He isn’t. He likes fucking and he loves women and he loves men and he loves  _love._ He is sappy and romantic and he watches  _Titanic_ alone, or sometimes with his Niall, curled up under a blanket with a carton of ice cream and a box of tissues. He writes sentimental love songs about people he’s never met. And it isn’t for lack of trying -- he’s had a handful of short-term girlfriends and one boyfriend but they were mostly sexual relationships anyways, and Harry learned to realize that’s what he is good at. He’s good at sex. He’s good at one night stands. People love him if it’s just for the night. And he likes one night stands too. He does. He  _needs_ them, really -- the intimacy, the release, the closeness, the sex itself. Relationships don’t get along with him. He throws himself into them too quickly, too intensely, and they always manage to crash, leaving him feeling confused and naive, wondering what he did wrong. He isn’t jaded -- he’s too young to be jaded. But there is a certain wariness, a kind of practiced, devil-may-care affectation that he wears to protect himself, and it hasn’t let him astray so far. To be honest, it hasn’t really led him anywhere at all -- just from stranger to stranger, to flats he’d never see again. 

-

“You ready?” Niall asks in the doorway. Harry stands in front of the mirror, tousling his hair around a bit.  
  
“What does that do, exactly?”  
  
“Makes me look freshly-fucked.”  
  
“I do have to admit that it’s appealing.”  
  
“See?” Harry smiles, rolling up the sleeves of his v-neck.  
  
“Now that just makes you look like a twat.”  
  
“A twat who's been working out?" Harry asks hopefully. "You look dashing, by the way.”   
  
Niall smiles, pleased, until he’s interrupted by a knock on the door. “And...that’ll be Nick! Hang on.”   
  
Nick appears in the doorway moments later, looking Harry up and down with a lewd grin. “Somebody’s been working out.”  
  
“Ahhh,  _merci_ ,” Harry says, curtsying.   
  
“And just like that, Harry Styles shatters the briefest moment of manliness that mankind has ever witnessed. Congrats, love.” Nick smiles brightly, ruffling Harry’s hair. “How vaginas still manage to find their way around your queer, queer little penis I will never understand.”  
  
“My penis is actually not so little at all, as you very well know. I could remind you, however, if you’ve forgotten?”  
  
“No, no, Hazza, I’m afraid those  _memories,_ plural, won’t stop haunting me ‘til my dying day.”  
  
The three of them load up Nick’s van and drive to the venue. It’s a fairly popular bar that Harry has performed at twice before and often visits as a patron. Still, he can’t help the familiar nerves that he feels stirring in the pit of his belly, or the anxious twitch in his hands. He orders a pint while they set up the sound equipment, drinking it slowly. It doesn’t calm him enough, so he drinks a second. He isn’t scheduled to perform until 9 -- by then he’s had three beers and a naval shot off some gorgeous Indian girl he finds at the bar. He licks the trail of salt from her belly and curls his tongue into her mouth when he’s finished, chasing the taste of lime and tequila. She smiles against his mouth, her teeth blindingly white. He kisses the corner of her mouth, whispering that he’d love for her to meet him after his show. She scribbles her phone number on the inside of his wrist, just in case.   
  
He can feel the alcohol loosening his muscles and nerves, and he slides onto his stage with an easy, lazy grace when they call his name.  
  
“I’m Harry Styles,” he says slowly into the mic. “This lovely Irish lad here with the guitar is Niall Horan. And we’d like to play you a few songs, if that’s alright.”  
  
He starts with one of his more familiar ones, encouraged by the few shouts of recognitions he receives from the audience. His hand curls languidly around the microphone, and his voice feels soulful and raw when it leaves his throat. He makes eye contact with a girl standing close to him, singing through a huge smile when he realizes that she’s mouthing his words along with him.   
  
After three songs, he stops to take a drink from his water bottle. “I just want to thank Niall again, and also my lovely manager Nick Grimshaw, who I’m sure many of you know. I also want to thank all of you guys for letting me perform for you. I really appreciate it.” He finds the Indian girl’s eyes at the bar, squinting through the stage lights, and winks at her. “Erm, this next song is a cover by someone I’m sure you’re all very familiar with. I guess I’ll just get on it with it then.”  
  
He settles behind his keyboard, mouthing his cue to Niall, and begins to sing.  
  
“ _See these eyes so green_  
 _I can stare for a thousand years_  
 _Colder than the moon_  
 _It’s been so long_  
 _And I’ve been putting out fire with gasoline.”_    
  
Niall joins him for the last two lines, and the audience cheers as it becomes very apparent who he’s covering. Harry tries to restrain from smiling, but he glances over at Niall, who looks the happiest he’s ever seen him, and the audience, who are actually  _dancing,_ and he begins to sing more loudly and animatedly. He stands up from his stool while he pounds on the keyboard, and Niall stands up for his guitar solo. The crowd whoops and screams and Harry joins them, cheering Niall on while he proudly runs his fingers down the strings of his guitar, beaming. He catches Niall’s eye and throws him a wink, standing over his mic to plough through the final chorus.  
  
They finish with a bow. Harry meets Nick’s eyes, who blows him a kiss, and gestures at someone over his shoulder with his thumb. It’s a tall, brunette woman, dressed in a professional suit jacket. Harry’s eyes widen. He assumes it’s the producer.  
  
“Thank you all again, you’ve been amazing.” Harry says into the microphone. He steps off the stage and through the crowd, gracefully accepting people’s compliments and thanking them for coming. When he reaches the bar, he immediately approaches the producer.   
  
“Hi, I’m Harry,” he says, sticking out his hand. “Sorry, I’m a bit sweaty.”  
  
She smiles, accepting the handshake anyways. “Not a problem. I’m Lucy Hall. I work for Warner Brothers.”  
  
“Oh, fuck.” He claps a hand over his mouth, his eyes widening. “I mean, er, yeah, alright. Nice to meet you. Can I uh...can I buy you a drink or something?”  
  
“I’m fine, thank you,” she smiles. She’s really exceptionally pretty, Harry notices. Long, straight brown hair, nice tan, good teeth. “You know, you were quite good up there.”  
  
“That’s very kind of you,” Harry says, a little shyly, scratching behind his neck. “Thank you so much for coming, really,” he adds earnestly.   
  
“Nick invited me. I’ve known him for about a year or so, and he called me recently to ask  me to come to this gig. I have to say I’m really quite interested in your music. Do you have a demo or anything?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah! Erm, the quality’s sort of shit, to be honest, because we couldn’t afford a good recording studio, but it sort of has a live quality, I think, that’s sort of nice. I’m sure Nick’s brought it, if you’d like one--”  
  
“I would like that very much.” Harry calls Nick over, and he digs through his bag, handing her a copy of the demo.  
  
“It’s five songs,” Nick says. “All original. We’ve handed it to a few other studios also, as you know, but you know, we weren’t really that happy with the offers. There were some independent studios as well, who were interested, but they were really only offering distribution deals, and we just don’t have the money to support that.”  
  
“So you’re looking for a major label deal?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“Listen, I’ll see what I can do. I’m already hooked.” She meets eyes with Harry, who flashes his most charming smile. “He’s got a fantastic voice, he’s a good songwriter, and he’s got the kind of face that could sell out stadiums.” Her eyes don’t leave Harry’s. Instinctually, he moves closer to her, their fingers brushing. She doesn’t move away. “I’ll take this in to the studio tomorrow and see what they think. Here’s my card.” She places it in Harry’s hand, her fingers lingering over his, squeezing briefly before letting go.   
  
“Wait,” Harry says as she turns to leave, his hand heavy on her shoulder. She stops, turning slowly to look at him over her shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink before you go. I insist.”  
  
Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, and she smiles. “Alright. If you  _insist,_ ” she teases, walking over to the bar. Harry admires her long, lean legs, the sharp cut of her calf muscles and the way her skirt hugs her arse. Nick throws him a warning look. He just winks in response.   
  
“What would you like, Miss Hall?” Harry asks lowly, his arm coming around her waist to tap on the bar, but not quite touching her.   
  
“A dirty martini, please. And call me Lucy.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,  _Lucy,_ ” he says flirtatiously. She bites down on a smile. He orders her drink, plus a dirty martini for himself. “So,” he says conversationally.  
  
“So.”  
  
“So you’re quite fit for an  _executive_ ,” he says lowly, grinning at her.   
  
“I’m not an executive,” she assures him with a laugh, putting her hand on his forearm. He looks down at her hand, then back at her eyes, smirking knowingly. She returns his gaze steadily, only breaking it to receive her drink.  
  
“Do you hit on all the producers who offer you record deals?”  
  
“Depends...are you offering me a record deal?”  
  
She laughs again. “So I take it you’re only interested in me for what I can offer you?”  
  
“No,” he whispers, his mouth brushing her ear. She smells like expensive perfume, more expensive than most of the girls he’s been with. “I’m interested in you because you’re really beautiful.”  
  
He can feel the sharp intake of her breath, so he continues. “And your arse looks incredible in that skirt. But I’m sure it looks even better out of it.”  
  
“You’re incredibly cheesy, do you know that?”  
  
Harry just grins at her, taking a long sip of his drink.   
  
“How old are you anyways?”  
  
“I’m eighteen.”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“‘Fraid not.”  
  
“Oh my god. This isn’t good. I really feel like a pedophile right now.”  
  
“Why? I’m  _legal,_ aren’t I? You’re not robbing any cradles, it’s fine.” Harry squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Do you want to go to mine after this?” He asks after a pause.  
  
“Your confidence is a little alarming,” she says, eyeing him over the rim of her glass.  
  
“I know what I want, that’s all,” Harry shrugs.   
  
“And what you want is a record deal.”  
  
“You think I want to sleep with you for a record deal?”  
  
“Yes, that’s exactly what I think.”  
  
“No, that’s not it. I’m going to get the deal because I have good songs. I’m going to fuck you because I want to, and that has nothing to do with your profession whatsoever.”  
  
“I don’t believe you. I think if that guy down there had come here tonight in my shoes, offering you a record deal, you would have propositioned him the same as me.” Harry looks down the bar at the guy in question. He’s a bit short, with dark hair and a pretty smile and nice arms. Harry leers approvingly.  
  
“Should’ve picked an uglier boy to prove your point, darling. That one’s fit as hell. I would definitely proposition him.”  
  
Lucy takes a step back, her hand canting to the side, curiously. “Are you saying you’re gay?”  
  
“How can I be gay when I’ve spent the last five minutes hitting on you?”  
  
“Fine...are you...non-exclusive, then, to put it delicately?”  
  
“Why put it delicately?” Harry downs the rest of his drink. “I fuck girls and I fuck boys.” He leans in closely to her ear again, lowering his voice. “Sometimes both at the same time.”  
  
Lucy keeps her face carefully blank, processing the information.   
  
“What? You’re not interested any more?” Harry asks, real concern slipping in to his otherwise carefully nonchalant stance. This could threaten his record deal, not just his potential fuck.  
  
“No, that’s not it. I just...find you very interesting, that’s all.”  
  
“It’s not that interesting.”  
  
Lucy shrugs, downing the rest of her drink. “You said something about your place?” She asks, arching her eyebrow.  
  
Harry wears a dirty grin as he curls his arm around her waist, leading her out the bar. He spots Niall and Nick in a huddle of people by the door, and he taps them both to let them know he’s going home. Nick sees Lucy on his arm and kisses her on the cheek, then shakes his head at Harry, only half-joking, when she’s not looking. Harry just winks at him, waving over his shoulder as he leads her outside.  
  
He has her up against the door the minute they reach his flat. His tongue flirts with the corner of her mouth, teasing, not quite pushing, as he turns the key in the lock by her elbow. Impatiently, she takes his chin by her thumb and forefinger, sliding her tongue against his as he presses her into the door. He unbuttons her suit jacket, which falls lazily to the floor, and walks her backwards to his bedroom. He starts to take of his shirt.  
  
“Slower,” she says, voice raw. She leans back on the bed, watching, as he pulls his shirt off slowly. Her eyes rake up and down his torso appreciatively, taking in long, lithe muscles and sharp v-lines. He bites his lip at her unabashed leering, unbuttoning his pants.   
  
He walks over to her in just his boxers, laying her down on the bed. Her arms fall beside her head as he kisses down her neck, over her shoulders, and down the inside of her arm until he reaches the zipper of her skirt. She shimmies out of it and he tugs if off her knees, throwing it behind him on the floor.  
  
“You’re denying me what I really want to see,” she whispers, hand curling around the back of his neck.   
  
Harry laughs against her abdomen, kissing around her navel, and then obliges. He pulls down his boxers in one swift tug and her face lights up.   
  
“And have you fully gone through puberty?” She asks.   
  
“What are you trying to say?” Harry demands, mock-offended.  
  
“Just making sure your dick isn’t pre-pubescent.”  
  
“Does it  _look_ pre-pubescent?” He asks, gesturing at his cock dramatically.   
  
“Shhh, not in the slightest, sweetheart,” she says quietly, pushing his head down closer to her panty line. His tongue presses against her, over her panties, and he licks over and over the same spot, until it’s soaking wet from her cunt and his mouth.  
  
“Take them off,” she whispers, high in her throat, tangling her hand in his curls. He prolongs the torture a little longer, fingers digging into her thighs while he increases the pressure of his mouth, and his tongue buries even further between her thighs.  
  
“Harry,  _now--”_ she demands.  
  
He finally slips them down, and they catch around her knees. He buries his head between her legs again, his tongue rolling circles around her clit, and she breathes hard through her nose, a harsh, desperate moan building deep in her lungs. She pulls on his hair, and he makes a noise like a low growl, pushing his tongue deep inside of her. She cries out into the inside of her wrist, digging her heels viciously into his back. He slides his tongue in and out repeatedly, first at a teasingly slow pace, and then relentlessly fast when she her nails bite painfully into his scalp.   
  
“Stop, stop,  _please,_ I want you in me before I come,” she groans. Harry pulls out, his grin filthy, and her cunt throbs painfully at the departure. His curls flop into his eyes as he settles over her, grabbing her under the arms to pull her further back on the bed so he can fit. He searches through the pockets of his discarded pants for a condom, rolling it on quickly before sliding inside of her in one smooth, fluid motion. She throws her head back when he pulls out, then ploughs forward again. Her ankles lock around his lower back as he bends down, his mouth latching to her jaw, teasing at the corner of her mouth. She can taste herself on him, and it’s achingly hot. His thumb runs ragged over the pulse at her neck, and her legs start to shake a little as he builds up a steady rhythm.   
  
At this angle, there’s pressure on her clit and her g-spot all at once, and he pounds into her relentlessly, obliging when she asks for  _faster, harder, more, Harry._ His thumb drags over her bottom lip, pulling slightly when she cries out as the pressure becomes too much. She feels so sensitized, aching with it, and he whispers something hot and filthy in her ear that she can’t even hear because she’s too preoccupied with the sounds of her own roaring heartbeat. He looks directly into her eyes as he fucks her, and they’re so stupidly beautiful and green and she loses it, right then, riding out the waves of her orgasm. He refuses to look away, not even closing his eyes when he finally comes himself. She pulls his head down harshly to kiss him, her teeth digging into his bottom lip.   
  
He slips down her body, slick with sweat, and pulls off the condom, tying it off neatly and ambling over to the bathroom to throw it away. She watches his arse as he walks away, smiling in satisfaction.  
  
He flops down next to her when he returns, kissing her cheek. She smiles into his neck, her eyes tracing down his body before landing on a mark on his wrist. She holds it up to the light -- it’s a phone number.  
  
“And who does this belong to?” She asks.  
  
He squints at it, trying to remember. “Ah yeah! Oops. That was that fit Indian girl I met before the show. I promised I’d meet up with her after.”  
  
“Guess you got a better offer, huh?” Lucy teases.  
  
They fall asleep together after Harry cleans them up. When he wakes up, Lucy is gone. She’s left her card and a cup of tea on the bedside next to him. He reaches out to drink it, but it’s gone cold. He drinks it anyways, gulping it down quickly before gathering the strength to take a shower. His hips and legs ache a little. He finds himself getting hard again, in the shower, thinking about Lucy, so he rubs one out, coming with a satisfied sigh.   
  
He doesn’t hear from her for two days. He goes to a club on the second night. He orders a pint and surreptitiously inspects the club’s occupants while he drinks. He spots a girl with a white-blonde pixie cut and a tiny green dress in the middle of the dance floor. It appears as though she’s with friends, but the space around her is open. Harry finishes his drink and sidles up behind her. She spins around in his arms, her eyes lighting up when she sees his face.   
  
“Why’d you look so surprised?” Harry asks.  
  
“Because I was afraid you’d be a creeper. Turns out you’re really fucking fit,” she grins.   
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“I’m Ellie.”  
  
“Harry,” he shouts, lips brushing her ear so she can hear him over the loud, thumping music.   
  
“Lovely to meet you, Harry,” she says, twirling her arms around his neck. Their hips roll together in rhythm with the music, something catchy with a medium-fast pulse that’s easy enough to dance to. She curls one arm around his shoulder, and waves the other in the air, occasionally mouthing the words along with the song. Harry smiles down at her, mouth barely touching the shell of her ear.   
  
“You’re really cute, do you know that?”  
  
Ellie just scrunches up at her nose at him, biting down on a smile. “You look a bit familiar,” she shouts over the music. “What’s your last name?”  
  
“Er, Styles.”  
  
She looks down, contemplative. “Ooh, I know! Are you a musician by any chance?”  
  
“Yeah, I am, actually--”  
  
“I saw you perform at some bar, like three weeks ago, I think? ‘Bells’ or some place like that?”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds about right. What’d you think?” Harry asks. He might be blushing.  
  
“I thought you were really good!” she says. “You’ve got a real soulful sort of voice. And you don’t look stupid when you sing. You write your own songs?”  
  
Harry nods, pulling her in a little closer by the waist.   
  
“They’re beautiful.”   
  
Harry ducks his head shyly, smiling against where her neck meets her shoulder. “Thank you,” he says softly. He feels her swallow against his cheek.  
  
“Would you like to go back to mine?” she asks, her hands running down his arms appreciatively, eventually squeezing his hands.  
  
He squeezes back in acceptance of her offer, and they leave the bar. They have to hail a cab, because she lives a bit further away. Harry pays the tab when they arrive, and they ride the lift up to her flat, while he curls in close, whispering all the things he wants to do to her the whole ride up. By the time they reach her door, she’s squirming and desperate and demanding.   
  
She pushes him onto the couch, pulls down her panties and rides him, still wearing her tiny green dress, which rucks up to her hips while he slams up into her, over and over. Her hands grab onto his hair like reigns, and she throws her head back. His mouth latches onto her neck, sucking bruises into the long pale column of her throat. He slides a finger into her mouth when she starts screaming, her hips writhing on his when she climaxes, collapsing onto his chest with a weak, breathy scream. He picks her up by the hips while she’s still catching her breath and throws her to the couch on her back, and flicks his tongue mercilessly over her clit until she ekes out a second orgasm. He’s still hard, so she flips their positions to go down on him. She works her hand around the base and presses her tongue against the underside of his cock until he’s begging her to do more. It doesn’t take long before he’s coming down her throat with a hoarse warning. She crawls back up his body when she finishes, resting her chin on his chest with a smile. He thumbs away a streak of come on her bottom lip, sucking into his mouth.   
  
“You’re filthy,” she whispers. Harry just pulls her in by the back of her neck, kissing her slowly, tasting himself on the inside of her cheek.   
  
“You want me to stay?” He whispers against her mouth. “Or should I go?”  
  
“It’s up to you,” she says. “I’ve got class in the morning so I’ll be gone, but do whatever you want.”  
  
“I think I might just head out then, if that's alright? But not without your number first, please," he adds with a pretty smile. She digs through a drawer in her coffee table to find a pen, scribbling it on his hand. She notices the faded number on the inside of his wrist.  
  
“A bit of competition, I see?” she remarks cheekily. “Someone’s been a bit of a hussy.”  
  
“My gran calls me a ‘loose woman,’” Harry says.  
  
She laughs, kissing him on the cheek one last time before shoving him out the door. He stands in the hallway for a moment, making sure his walk of shame won’t be too obvious, and discovers that his fly is down. He pats himself down quickly, carding a hand through his hair so it can resume it’s normal artfully-tousled state, and rides down the lift. He decides not to take a cab, even though it’s a bit of a walk back to his flat. He likes the dark, and the wind, and the chill cools down his flaming post-coital cheeks and the sweat on his brow. He collapses onto his bed as soon as he reaches his flat.   
  
He wakes up to the smell of eggs and bacon the following morning. He stumbles into his kitchen, naked and confused, to find Niall standing at his stove, whistling pleasantly, flipping an egg.   
  
“...the fuck?”  
  
Niall turns around, his smile falling when he sees the state Harry’s in. “Oy, Harold, put on some fucking clothes!”  
  
“It’s my house! I’ll be naked if I want to! How’d you get in anyways?”  
  
“You gave me a key, you tit.”  
  
“Oh. Right.”  
  
“Sit down -- clothed, please -- and I’ll make you breakfast.”  
  
Harry mumbles something under his breath, but retreats to his bedroom to pull on a pair of loose sweatpants anyways, not bothering with a shirt. He collapses at his kitchen counter and Niall slides a plate in front of him.   
  
“Were you just...in the neighborhood?”  
  
“No, just haven’t heard from you in a few days, which I know means you’ve been sleeping around.”  
  
“You make me sound like a prostitute.”  
  
“The similarities are striking, mate, you have to admit.”  
  
Harry stuffs a piece of toast into his mouth, managing to chew and frown all at once. He swallows and demands, “I don’t see what the problem is!”  
  
“”s no problem,” Niall shrugs. “I just...I don’t know, don’t you ever wonder what it’s like to have a girlfriend?”  
  
Harry avoids eye contact. “I dunno.”  
  
“Really? ‘I dunno’?” Niall asks, surprised.  
  
“What? No. I don’t really think about it much to be honest,” Harry says, scowling. “They mostly just seem like a lot of work.” It’s dismissive and cheap and a lie, but it’s all Harry can think of to say.  
  
“Fine, a boyfriend, then?”  
  
“Let’s see...it’s still a commitment, it’s still no fun, and it’s still debilitating to the general structure of my well-being, so no, Niall. No boyfriends either.”  
  
“But what if you meet someone really special?”  
  
Harry laughs. “Look, I meet a lot of special people. The people I sleep with are gorgeous and wonderful and anyone would be lucky to have them but see, we have this thing where we  _mutually agree_ that all we’re interested in is a one-night, maybe two-night fuck, and nothing more, because we understand that relationships are shit.”  
  
“How can you write so many songs about love if you have no fucking idea what it is?” Niall demands.  
  
“Niall, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything so sternly,” Harry says, impressed.  
  
“Don’t be a twat,” Niall mumbles into his orange juice.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry says earnestly, rubbing Niall’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just -- look, what’s brought this about? Are you alright? Did you watch  _The Notebook_ alone again?”  
  
Niall slaps him, half-heartedly.   
  
“Look, I like the idea, okay? Of the whole romance bit, I do. I’m not calling it stupid or anything like that. I would love to be in love, but I just haven’t met the right person yet. Besides, I’m only 18. Right now’s about being young and stupid and fucking whoever I want without worrying about the consequences. And if I found someone who made me want to change that, fine.”  
  
“Yeah, alright. I just...sometimes I worry when you get in these things that the other person doesn’t see it quite like you do, you know?”  
  
“Niall, I’m not a dick,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t fuck around with people like that.”  
  
“I know!” Niall says quickly. Then, “good,” a little softer.  
  
Harry licks his lips, feeling around for his phone in his pocket. Before he knows it, he’s calling Lucy Hall, asking her to meet up with him tonight at a bar around the corner from his flat. 

-

“Hello, love, how have you been?” she asks him when he taps her on the shoulder at the counter. She’s there 5 minutes earlier than him, already nursing a vodka tonic.   
  
“Alright, I s’pose. Have you been able to show the demo to anyone at Warner Brothers?”  
  
She smirks around her tiny straw. “Ah. I see. So this is a work meeting, not a pleasure meeting.”  
  
“It can be both, if you’d like,” Harry says quietly, something he can’t quite identify rolling around in his stomach. She nods, and the feeling slithers down to his groin.  
  
“I would like that, yes. And I have shown the demo to my immediate superior -- he said he would get around to in a week or so.”  
  
“What do you think my chances are?”  
  
She shrugs, her hair falling down her shoulders. It’s bone-straight and silky-looking, her bangs falling in a neat line across her forehead. She’s wearing a smooth black dress -- the overall image is overwhelmingly sleek and put-together. Harry licks his lips, wanting to fuck her up -- he wants her hair in disarray and her lipstick smeared and her dress falling down her shoulder. He tries to concentrate on what she’s saying but the  _want_ pounding in his temples is distracting.  
  
“--depends on your contract. I have a producer in mind but that could all change depending on what kind of deal we cut. You follow?”  
  
Harry nods.   
  
“You look ready for the pleasure part of the meeting, darling.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“Let’s go to the mine, then. C’mon, babe.”   
  
Harry smiles to himself, watching the sway of her hips as he follows her out of the bar. She pays for a cab back to her flat, and almost makes him lose it right there in the back of the car when she fondles him through his pants, muffling laughter into his shoulder while he flushes all the way down to his toes, feeling filthy and horny and terribly, terribly attracted to the woman who might be holding his future in her hands.   
  
She gives him three orgasms that night -- she rides him first, on her couch, then he fucks her face-first into her mattress after he spends a solid thirty minutes eating her out while she cries into her forearm. They finish off in the shower, where he hoists her against the wall, shielding her from the spray while his hips slam into her until she screams out an orgasm, almost slipping down the wall if it wasn’t for the firm grip he had on her thighs.   
  
He falls asleep with his head cradled on her chest, her hand tangled in his shower-clean curls.   
  
He wakes up in an empty apartment, with a little note stuck to his forehead asking him to please remember to lock the door when he leaves. In smaller print underneath it says, “You looked too cute to wake up” with a little smiley face that has Harry beaming giddily, in spite of himself.  
  
When he finally arrives home he writes a song, a stupid, sappy thing about a beautiful older woman who drives him crazy, and he means every word. He calls Niall excitedly as soon as he finishes.  
  
“Niall, get your pretty Irish ass over here, please. I did what you asked. I can’t stop thinking about this girl -- well, this woman -- and I wrote a song about her, and I need you to tell me what you think.”  
  
He plays Niall the song.  
  
“It sounds erm...well it doesn’t sound anything like your other songs. But I think it’s what the radio would want.”  
  
He shows it to Nick, who essentially says the same thing, but tells him to add another chorus and to make it more pornographic.   
  
“I’d never thought I’d make that amendment, by the way. Usually you do that well enough on your own.  _Too well.”_  
  
“But that’s exactly the point isn’t it -- I didn’t want to write another song about sex, I wanted to write about  _love._ ”  
  
“You don’t love this woman, Harry.”  
  
“No. No, I don’t,” Harry concedes. “But I’m certainly feeling  _something,_ okay? I  _could_ love her, that’s the thing.”  
  
“You’ve only just met her, you horny little slut!”  
  
“And when have I ever been known to take things slow, hm?”  
  
Harry Styles has never been known to take anything slow. Except perhaps for the pace of his speech.  
  
He calls her again that night, and they go for drinks. He gets her drunk enough to take her to the roof of his building, where they talk for hours and hours about everything, and their mouths only touch once.   
  
Around 2 AM, he asks her, staring at the stars, “How young did you think I was when you first saw me?”  
  
“I don’t know. 21, maybe.”  
  
“I don’t think I look 21.”  
  
“Maybe I was adding a few years to assuage my own panicking conscience, then. You make me feel very old,” she says softly, wrapping her hand around his fingers. Her grip is strong, and he lets her squeeze them.   
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t know. You just have this sort of quality -- it’s almost,  _wild,_ or something. And only kids can have that. Like it’s almost selfish. You don’t really seem to care about what you’re  _supposed_ to do. You just do what you want. Adults don’t have that. We get all suffocated by things -- like being sensible, and having manners, and being  _acceptable._ You just -- you don’t seem to answer to anyone. I mean, you’re living on your own in London at 18. Where are your parents?”  
  
“Holmes’ Chapel,” Harry says, a bit hoarsely. “Left them last year. They wanted me to go to uni and I mean, I did that, right, but it wasn’t for me. Got kicked out. I got into a lot of trouble. And then I moved here -- had a job at a bakery for a while, that was shit. Now I mostly live off Niall and what I earn from gigs, and Nick helps me out too. Mostly just by policing my bad habits -- if it was up to me I’d spend it all on booze and concert tickets.”  
  
“But it is up to you, isn’t it?”  
  
Harry turns his head to meet her eyes, smiling. A little halo of moonlight falls around his hair and scatters shadows over the contours of his cheekbones. Lucy swallows tightly. He looks devilishly handsome, with his dark curls and pale, pale skin and red lips. He simply reeks of youth and health and something a little dangerous, a little lion-hearted. She grabs him by the jaw, and presses her mouth to his, chasing the stale taste of wine and the cinnamon gum he pops every so often.   
  
“You could really do a lot of damage, Harry,” she says.   
  
“I don’t want to do damage, though. I just want to be happy.”  
  
She rolls over so she’s straddling his hips. She isn’t wearing underwear under her delicate black dress, so all it takes is tugging down Harry’s pants before his half-hard cock is sliding up into her. He gasps upon entry, throwing his head back and staring into the white orb of the moon as she rolls her hips, tortuously slow, and he quickly grows to full hardness inside her. She moves faster, lowering her torso so she’s draped across his chest, biting gently into the smooth, flawless expanse of his throat.   
  
They come together, wordlessly, panting into each other’s mouths, and Harry stares at the stars over her shoulder, his eyes glittering with the reflection.  
  
\--  
  
She calls him the next morning.  
  
“It’s going to be another week, I’m afraid, before my boss makes his decision. Meanwhile, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
They go to a forgettable Chinese restaurant next to her flat and sit next to each other instead of facing each other, mirroring their positions from the night before. Lucy claims it’s easier to share food this way.  
  
Afterwards they sit on her balcony for hours, even when the chilly night turns into cold, grey morning. Lucy throws blankets on them but they don’t curl together for warmth. They remain in their own spheres, watching the moon while their mouths move, endlessly.  
  
The sun ekes over the horizon, rinsing them in pale, grey light. Harry throws a hand over his eyes when it becomes more and more blinding, and Lucy steps inside to make them tea.   
  
When she sets the cup in his hands, she says, “I don’t know what it is about you that makes me want to do to this. I never want to do this. I like sex and falling asleep. And music, I like music. But I’ve never had the desire to do  _this._ ”  
  
Harry smiles and ducks his head, his hair falling over his eyes in  _that way_ he knows makes a girl’s heart stutter madly, and he literally watches it happen to Lucy, her mouth falling open briefly before tightening, gulp traveling down the column of her throat.  
  
“You have a weird power over people,” she says. “Do you know that? Fuck, maybe you shouldn’t know that.”  
  
“I don’t -- particularly know how to respond to that, to be honest,” he says, voice raw from talking. He takes a sip of tea, its soothing heat comforting his throat.  
  
“Haven’t you ever felt that way about a person?”  
  
He looks at her and feels -- something. He’s never been in love so he doesn’t have a reference point, but it’s more than lust.  
  
“I don’t know,” he says. “But I’m only 18.”  
  
“You’re only 18,” she repeats back to him, as if she can hardly believe it herself. “You’re both everything an 18 year old should be and yet there’s something  _wrong.”_  
  
“Wrong?”  
  
She never explains what she means. She just sets her tea down and climbs into his lap, pulling his tea away from his mouth and setting it down next to hers. This is the only way she’ll face him now -- with his cock inside her, their eyes burning across from each other and the sun burning over her shoulder. She feels so strong and powerful, moving up and down on top of him, and he unravels messily, crying out into her shoulder, hiding his eyes from the sun, which is suddenly all too-bright.  
  
They sleep all day, wrapped up in each other’s arms on her couch, and he dreams of her long hair, draped over his shoulder and her mouth on his cock and his future in her hands. They wake up in the evening, and Harry cooks her breakfast for dinner.  
  
They eat on the balcony, still not facing each other, and Harry wonders if that’s wrong. He stares at her, side-long, wanting to be in love with her, not knowing if he is.  
  
\--  
  
“How many people have been in love with you?” Lucy asks him. They’ve been together for almost 60 hours without stopping.   
  
“I dunno.”  
  
“How many people have you loved?”  
  
“None...I don’t think.”  
  
“How do you write about it then?”  
  
Harry shrugs, shoving a handful of grapes into his mouth. “I use my imagination.”  
  
“And that’s enough for you?”  
  
Harry stares at her intensely for a long moment. “Nothing’s ever enough for me,” he says, finally.   
  
They don’t have sex that night. They watch a film and eat ice cream and dance to Michael Jackson, half-dressed in front of her window, on display for anyone to see. They fall asleep in a sweaty pile at the foot of her bed, tangled together. They shower in the morning, and make up for the lack of sexual activity from the night before.  
  
When Harry finally returns to his flat, it’s with giddy excitement, not from leaving her, but from knowing she’ll call and invite him back again -- and it’s the strangest of sensations for Harry, being anticipated. For most, he’s an unexpected surprise that they’ll never see again. For Lucy, he’s wanted and  _known_. She  _knows him,_ she thinks of him when she’s not with him, she cares about him.  
  
But she doesn’t call that day. She calls the next morning, and tells him to come to the studio at 3 to meet with her boss. Harry tries to gauge her mood by the tone of her voice but there’s nothing.   
  
He’s prompt as ever -- standing in her boss’s office at 3 wearing a navy blazer and some neat khakis. He knows how appealing he looks like this -- innocent and dangerous at the same time, like a troublemaking schoolboy. Lucy is perched at the end of her boss’s desk; he’s behind it, a tall, grey-haired man with broad shoulders and an intimidating jawline. Harry sits in the chair in front of them, smiling charmingly.   
  
“Harry, I’m afraid you’re just not what we’re looking for right now.”  
  
Harry doesn’t process it immediately. He’s still smiling, eyes huge in his face, teeth gleaming white against his tan. He doesn’t understand.  
  
“You’re very, very young, too young, if I’m being honest. Give it a few years. Keep working at it, keep writing, keep playing. You’re a diamond in the rough, kid.”  
  
It comes to him slowly.  _No,_ his voice is screaming. His heart slams against his ribs, once, twice, and then it’s hammering, and Harry’s smile falls stiff and crooked.  _He’s saying no. The answer is no._  
  
“Maybe come back to us in a few years, who knows? Maybe you’ll be ready then,” he says, smiling, but Harry isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at Lucy, who he wants to look sympathetic, or angry, or ready to fight for him but no, she’s staring at Harry coolly, unwavering.   
  
Harry stands up abruptly, staring her down so they’re at eye line. She still doesn’t flinch, and Harry feels rage rolling around in his belly, crackling in his fingers, itching at his knuckles, a hot, unbearable poison in his blood.   
  
“Do you feel the same?” He can’t help but ask her, and his voice is tight with fury, his teeth sliding over his lip, over and over again, trying to find a grip.  
  
“You’re very young, Harry,” she says, but in her mouth the words sound like an insult, instead of a fact. “You could do a lot of damage one day. But not today.”  
  
Harry knocks over his chair violently, and he knows it’s stupid, and childish, but he just wants to see her flinch, wants to see her calm pretty facade break in fear. She jumps down from the desk so it doesn’t hit her, stepping quickly to the side.   
  
“Please leave,  _Mr. Styles,_ ” she says, and it’s like a punch to the face.   
  
His lips spread into a slow smile, and he cracks his knuckles behind his back while he gives a mocking little two-fingered salute. He throws a childish middle finger over his shoulder before he stomps out the door, slamming it behind him.  
  
He’s on his phone within minutes. “Nick? Set fire to the Warner Brothers building.”  
  
“No can do -- my favorite coffee shop is in the lobby of their building.”  
  
“But  _arson._ Arson is the only answer,” he says shakily. He feels unstable, hands trembling furiously, and he can feel his pulse pounding all over his body.  
  
“How about this -- I’m assuming you didn’t get the deal, right? Fuck them. But look -- I’ll be over at your flat in two minutes, and I’ll bring your favorite leprechaun and we’ll cheer you up.”  
  
“I don’t want to be cheered up,” Harry hisses into the mouthpiece. “I want to  _set them on fire!”_  
  
“Harry, listen to me.”  
  
Harry stops at a street corner and gets the sudden urge to jump into the oncoming traffic. “What?” he spits, sending a vicious death glare to the old woman waiting on the curb next to him.  
  
“There are hundreds of production companies, okay. This isn’t the end, not even in close. You’re so fucking young, Harry-”  
  
“Would everybody stop saying that?” Harry practically screams. A few people passing by stop to look at them and he throws his middle finger into the air manically. They look away, shaking their heads.   
  
“Nick...” Harry says shakily.   
  
“What is it, babe?”  
  
“I feel like I’m going to be sick.”  
  
“Okay, look, it’s going to be okay, where are you?”  
  
“I just passed the bakery.”  
  
“You’re almost home, babe, just keep going and I’ll be right behind you and it will all be okay, alright?”  
  
“Nick,  _please_ , I can't--” His hands are trembling.  
  
“ _Harry,_ please, please don’t let this get to you.”  
  
Harry hangs up on him, feeling helpless and sick and by the time he enters his building, he can no longer restrain himself. He runs all the way up the stairs to his floor and practically bangs down the door. He kneels by his toilet but nothing comes up, no vomit, no tears, nothing, he just feels empty, and stupid, and furious.   
  
Nick and Niall come by and they stroke his hair and watch a stupid film and order pizza and do all the things that best friends should do -- they, of course, are angry too, because the deal affected them as well but they Harry is more fragile than them, more wild, less stable, and worse, he’s used to getting what he wants. Not necessarily in a spoiled way, he’s just one of those people. He doesn’t get turned down. If things turn out badly for them, it somehow manages to always reflect positively on him -- when he was expelled, he came out like a rebel, like something powerful and revolutionary. When he was struggling to make a living, his suffering managed to look beautiful and sympathetic. But this -- this was pure loss, and it was unbearable to Harry. He’d never been taught to cope with disappointment like this.  
  
And Lucy. He might not have loved Lucy but give it a week, maybe two, and it would’ve been a done deal. And he could’ve sworn she felt the same, but her eyes in that studio held nothing but contempt. Harry felt the betrayal slide into his gut like a blade, wrenching and bitter-tasting, the loss of her bubbling up to his lips like blood.  
  
As soon as Niall and Nick leave, Harry throws on a jumper and practically runs to her flat, filled with hot air and ready to explode on her, to spit at her feet, to stomp and scream and act exactly like the child that everyone claims he is.   
  
When she opens the door, she looks genuinely surprised. Harry stands there with a gaping mouth for a moment because she looks so goddamn fuckable in that moment and it pains him to think it. She’s wearing a wife beater -- for all Harry knows it might even be his -- and a pair of tiny grey shorts slung low on her hips. Harry spies a bruise he left her on her hipbone.   
  
Finally, he regains his self-control. “You’re a fucking cunt.”  
  
She raises her eyebrows, and Harry continues furiously, “I’ve never said that to a woman before. But  _you_ \-- I’ve never met anyone who deserved to hear it more.”  
  
“Look, Harry,” she says, and Harry hates how calm she sounds. “I’m not sure what you thought we are -- boyfriend and girlfriend? Lovers? I’m not really sure. But I can tell you for certain -- we were fuck buddies at best, who also happened to engaged in a sort of business deal. The deal ended. The fucking, however, doesn’t have to, if you’re up for it.”  
  
She leans casually against the door frame, staring at him blankly, and Harry just shakes his head, almost laughing.  
  
“Do I mean anything at all to you?” He asks, wishing his voice didn’t sound so shaky.  
  
“Sure. You’re a nice kid, an astoundingly good fuck, you have a huge cock, and beautiful eyes, and a good singing voice...look, I could go on and on.”  
  
“You’re just...listing things about me that you like, you didn’t answer my question.”  
  
Lucy narrows her eyes, studying him carefully. She licks her lips slowly before asking, “You’re not used to people not being in love with you, are you?”  
  
“You don’t know anything about me,” Harry hisses.  
  
“And you don’t know a thing about me,” she returns easily. “So again -- what gave you the impression that we were anything more than fuck buddies?”  
  
Harry doesn’t have an answer, settling for glowering at her furiously. She merely stares back, practically disinterested. “You’re so young, Harry. And it’s beautiful. Savor your youth while you have it, darling.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Harry spits. His voice shakes but he doesn’t care. He presses the button to the elevator, hands trembling. He never hears her shut the door.  
  
By the time he arrives home he collapses face-first onto his bed and falls asleep. He doesn’t cry or dream or wank or anything just falls, empty and wrung-out, anger beating dully throughout his body, pinging at his skin like bruises.


	3. The Strangers

Harry doesn’t wake up until 4 in the afternoon the next day, muscles aching, tongue heavy in his mouth. He calls Niall while he brushes his teeth.   
  
“Niall, we’re going out tonight.”  
  
“Um...okay. Yeah. Sure, mate. Where?”  
  
Harry spits a wad of toothpaste into the sink, baring his teeth in a gleaming white smile in the mirror. “I don’t know...I was thinking ‘Play,” maybe? That gay bar by the bridge? If you’re up for it, of course. I’ve had a lot of women lately.”  
  
“So I’ll just play wingman or what?”  
  
“Or...you could invite that girl you’ve been texting but won’t tell me about and tell her your gay friend wants to buy you both drinks at a fun bar tonight,” Harry suggests hopefully, eyes widening in a plea. “C’mon, please, I want to meet her!”  
  
“I...I don’t know if she’d be up for it.” Niall scratches the back of his head nervously.  
  
“Of course she would! Please, it’ll be fun!”   
  
Niall can’t turn down Harry’s puppy-dog eyes, so he caves, sending her a quick text. Harry fist pumps himself obnoxiously and falls backwards onto the couch, patting the space next to him so Niall will join him.  
  
Eight hours later they’re standing in front of the club. Niall’s got a pretty, dark-haired girl named Mia on his arm, and she’s so small, like maybe not even 5 feet tall. She has a giant smile and a loud laugh and one of those husky voices. Harry thinks she’s perfect for Niall. They finally go inside, and it’s packed. There are bodies everywhere, flooded in blue, flashing lights, and Harry thinks he recognizes an M.I.A. remix blasting out of the speakers. He shouts over the music that he’s going to buy them all drinks.   
  
He leans over the bar after giving his order to the bartender, casually resting his chin on his hand as his eyes sweep over dancers and couples and other single men like himself, settling for watching. He keeps his an eye on a gorgeous Persian-looking guy across the dance floor, before collecting his drinks and carrying them over to Niall and Mia, who have found a little booth in the corner.  
  
“Spotted anyone one good yet?” Niall asks. He turns to Mia and says lowly, “Harry’s a bit of a slut, by the way.”   
  
She laughs when Harry slaps his arm. “I am though,” he admits, after a moment of fake pouting. “And I’m not sure. After a few more of these,” he gestures to their drinks, “I’m gonna go get a closer look, if you know what I mean.”  
  
He drinks the rest of his beer quickly, then grabs the elbow of a passing waiter and asks for a whiskey.   
  
“Since when have you ever needed liquid courage?” Niall asks.  
  
“Since I haven’t fucked a boy in like three months.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Mia cuts in. “You’ve been dry for  _three months_? Jesus.”  
  
“No, no, he just means he’s only been seeing women, recently,” Niall assures her.  
  
“So you’re bi?”  
  
“ _Pan_ ,” Harry and Niall respond at the same time, Harry with a wink, and Niall with exasperation.   
  
“Yeah, you’re going to have to explain that one to me,” Mia says with a wry quirk of her lips.   
  
“Ah, here he goes,” Niall sighs, as Harry takes a long sip of his whiskey and launches into an explanation of his sexuality, one Niall has heard countless times.   
  
Harry orders two rounds of shots for them once he finishes his whiskey, and by then he feels loose and warm enough to venture onto the dance floor.  
  
He spies the Persian-looking guy again and stares him down, hoping they’ll make eye contact. Finally, he looks up, and Harry smiles at him, approaching. The guy looks Harry up and down appreciatively. He’s even more gorgeous up close -- black hair combed into a steep quiff with shaved sides, big, long-lashed hazel eyes, caramel-coloured skin, and rather exquisite bone structure.   
  
More importantly, he’s nothing like Lucy Hall. He’s got a dick, he has stubble on his chin, and he doesn’t have a hand anywhere near Harry’s future.   
  
“Hello,” Harry says lowly, leaning in to his hair so he can hear over the music. “I’m Harry. You mind if I sit?” He gestures to the empty space in the booth.   
  
“Not at all, mate.” He smiles, all shiny white teeth and mischievous eyes. “I’m Zayn.”  
  
“Can I buy you a drink or something?”  
  
At that moment, two other men approach them, one rather broad-shouldered with brown hair, and the other smaller and blue-eyed, with very tight pants. He looks achingly familiar. Harry’s eyes openly linger over the smaller one, and he’s sure to smile at him when they finally make eye contact.   
  
The small one tips his head to the side and claps Zayn on the shoulder as he slides into the booth. “And who is this?” He asks loudly. “Zayn, have you made a friend?” His voice is sort of high-pitched and almost-raspy.   
  
“My name’s Harry.”  
  
“Ah, hello, Harry. And how do you know Zayn?” he asks.   
  
“I don’t know Zayn,” Harry says honestly.  
  
“Oh, I see. But you’d like to know him better?” he says mischievously, his eyebrows moving up and down. Harry bites his lip and looks down at his lap, gaze flickering up back to Zayn’s, who’s smiling at the third boy. He still hasn’t said a word.   
  
“I feel like I’m missing something here...” Harry says slowly, a small grin flirting at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Just that our lovely Zayn here is taken by this young lad,” the small one chirps, clapping his hand on the third guy’s bicep.   
  
“Oh, damn.” Harry has the grace to at least blush. He moves his hair out of his eyes, looking a bit embarrassed. “Sorry, mate, I didn’t know...” he says to the third guy.  
  
“It’s fine,” he shrugs, with a small smile. “I’m Liam, by the way.”  
  
“Cool. Liam, Zayn...and you are?” He looks directly at the smallest one, who gives Harry another pretty smile.  
  
“Louis!  _Not_ taken, by the way,” he winks, rather forward, and Harry finds himself leering again, in spite of himself. The three of them -- Liam, Zayn, and Louis -- might be three of the most attractive boys that Harry’s ever seen, at least all at the same time. Liam and Zayn watch Louis closely, almost worriedly, it seems, as he flirts with Harry. Harry thinks Liam’s furrowed brow and huge brown eyes make him look like a puppy. Zayn is almost unnaturally attractive -- perfectly symmetrical lines and a pretty mouth and a sort of dangerous quality that Harry can’t pinpoint.  
  
And Louis -- Louis is something else entirely. The cut of his cheekbones is obscene, and he has big blue eyes, long eyelashes, a pretty smile, and a sort of fey, androgynous structure to his face that Harry finds extremely enticing.  He also looks familiar to Harry, but he’s not sure why.   
  
“Have I...have I seen you before?” He asks. He sees Liam move to sit next to Zayn out of the corner of his eye. Louis moves in a little closer to Harry, so their thighs are touching.  
  
“Er, I dunno!” Louis swallows tightly, almost nervously. “Anyways, can I buy you a drink?”  
  
“I’ve already had a few, but I could also go for another,” Harry says with a lazy grin, teeth dragging over his lip. Louis’s eyes flicker down to his mouth for a brief second before nodding quickly, waving his hand to catch a waiter’s attention.   
  
“What would you like?” Louis asks, putting his hand on Harry’s knee. Their faces are very close, and Harry takes the opportunity again to admire him. Louis flicks his hair to the side -- it’s sort of feathery and soft-looking, and Harry suddenly feels an urgent need to fuck it up.   
  
“Er, another whiskey, then,” he says, whispering it into Louis’s ear instead of just telling the bartender himself.  
  
“He’ll have a whiskey, and uh...you know what? I’ll do the same!” Louis says brightly, squeezing Harry’s knee.   
  
“You smell quite nice,” Harry says, his nose brushing along the little hairs beside Louis’s ear.   
  
“Are you some sort of animal?” Louis asks.   
  
“Hey, humans do this too, you know, whether we’re conscious of it or not. Pheromones, or something...” Harry mumbles.  
  
“What the hell are you going on about?”  
  
“You know, like that chemical...it’s why humans are attracted to each other,” Harry murmurs slowly, pulling Louis in closer so he can whisper into his ear. “And I think my pheromones like your pheromones.”“Darling, I’m quite sure that’s not how it works. Also, that was very cheesy,” Louis quips, but Harry can feel his breath quickening under his pulse. He rubs his thumb along Louis’s neck, who sort of keens under the pressure.  
  
“Oy! How many drinks have you had already?”   
  
“A few,” Harry says vaguely.  
  
“I need to get on your level, clearly.”  
  
Harry nods, wrapping an arm around Louis’s shoulders. He leans in closely again. “So after this drink, you want to dance?”  
  
“I’d love to.”  
  
The waiter arrives with their drinks. The moment Louis lifts the glass to his lips, Harry slaps his arm excitedly.   
  
Louis splutters a little, wiping the spilt whiskey off his chin and setting the glass down on the table. “Oy!” He cries, slapping Harry in return. “You’ve got whiskey on my pants! My  _turquoise_ pants! Now it looks like I’ve pissed myself!”  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Harry says, laughing a little. He tips his drink into his lap too, just briefly, giving himself a matching stain. He laughs even harder at the shocked look on Louis’s face. “See, it’s fine. At least now we’re matching.”  
  
“You’re ridiculous. Sweet Jesus, what have I gotten myself into...what the hell did you even slap me for!”   
  
“I just realized where I recognized you from.”  
  
Louis goes a little pale, twisting the hem of his rather tight striped shirt. Harry watches the delicate bob of his adam’s apple, wanting to lick it -- everything about Louis makes Harry want to put his hands all over him, right now, regardless of the consequences.   
  
With a smile that dips precariously into madness, Harry leans in close, teeth gleaming against the gold of his tan. “At that restaurant, erm...damn, I’ve forgotten the name of it.”   
  
Harry feels the air whoosh out of Louis in a sigh that sounds a lot like relief. He looks at him curiously, continuing, “It’s...an Italian restaurant, I know that. And you were there, and erm...you thought I was someone you were supposed to meet! That’s it! But then the real guy arrived, so you left.”  
  
“I -- I remember that,” Louis says breathlessly.   
  
“So I’m guessing it didn’t work it out with him, then, did it? Not if you’re here with me now, right?”  
  
Louis looks down at his lap, smiling thinly, his hands still fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. The color comes back to  
his cheeks, and Harry wants nothing more than to run his thumb over the sweet curve of his cheekbone, see if the skin stretched there is as soft as it looks.   
  
“No, um. It didn’t. I guess I should’ve just stuck with you that night, shouldn’t I?” He says, with a smile that looks a little forced to Harry. Louis takes another long gulp of his drink, wincing at the taste. “Why’d I get this? You tricked me, didn’t you? Sorcery.”  
  
Harry laughs fondly. “Dunno, mate. What’s your drink, then?”  
  
“Wine. All I ever want is wine.”  
  
“You sound like a bit of an alkie, sweetheart.”  
  
“And  _you_ sound like Liam,” Louis returns, shooting a wicked glare at the sweet-looking boy curled up next to Zayn. Both remain oblivious.   
  
Harry takes another long drink. “So how are they then?” he asks, nodding at Liam and Zayn. “They been together long?”  
  
“For ages. And  _I’m_ forever the third wheel. They say they don’t mind, though,” Louis shrugs. “I’d fucking loathe me if I were them, though. I’m such a nuisance, I know it. Don’t know why they bother.”   
  
Louis smiles brightly while he casually insults himself, and Harry frowns. Louis continues, oblivious, “Why’d you ask anyway? Want them to break up so you can have a go at the luscious, exotic Zayn?”  
  
Harry pinches the inside of Louis’s elbow. “ _N_ o. I’m here with you, aren’t I?” It’s achingly similar to something he’s said just moments before, and Louis finds himself snuggling closer to Harry in spite of himself.   
  
“Yeah, but I was your second choice. Go on, admit it. You wanted a piece of that fine Pakistani arse and you know it.”  
  
Harry shrugs. “I mean, he’s really fit, I’m not gonna lie.” He takes another long sip, which Louis mimics.   
  
Louis smiles proudly, but his hands still fidget nervously with his shirt. “See? Told you.”  
  
“But I hadn’t even seen you yet!”  
  
“Nice try.”  
  
“I hadn’t!” Harry promises. “Do you even know how bad I wanted to get with you when I saw you at that restaurant? That must’ve been...fuck, at least three months ago, yeah? But I still remember your arse. I’ve never seen anything like it. I even remember what you were wearing! These sort of burgundy-coloured trousers, that fit all tight across your bum and your thighs, I swear you looked fucking good enough to eat, and this sweater that hung off your collarbones all inviting-like. And I remember thinking your hair was really cute, all swept to the side like you do,” Harry whispers closely, reaching up to touch Louis’s hair. Louis’s eyes sort of stutter closed for a minute. Harry takes Louis by the wrist, feels his pulse racing under the soft skin there. “And I thought your smile was really cute.”  
  
“That’s um...” Louis swallows. Harry swears he’s blushing. “That’s all quite sweet of you to say.”  
  
“I’m not saying it to be sweet, I’m saying it because I mean it,” Harry says earnestly. Louis watches him, looking almost confused. Harry just finishes his drink with a wink and slams the empty glass on the table.   
  
“You ready to dance now or what?” Harry asks, and suddenly his face is right next to Louis’s again, whose blush creeps down his neck. He finishes his drink with a grimace and nods.  
  
“We should request a song,” Harry says, giggling into the top of Louis’s head as he wraps his arm around his waist as they walk to the dance floor. He sways a bit, but doesn’t stumble, his grip on Louis keeping his balance in check.  
  
“I think this one’s fine,” Louis says, mouth brushing Harry’s neck. They find a good spot, and Harry turns Louis around so his back is pressed flush against Harry’s front. They find the beat, Harry’s hips pushing against the small of Louis’s back in a slow, dirty, rhythmic grind, his hands slung low on Louis’s waist. Louis’s head falls back against Harry’s chest, his arse rolling back against him. It feels amazing pressed against him, firm and perfect and inviting.   
  
Harry leans down to whisper to Louis, his lips nestled in the soft slip of skin behind his ear. “Turn around. I want to see your face.”  
  
Louis obeys, turning in the circle of Harry’s arms, glancing up at Harry from beneath his eyelashes. Their height difference isn’t that drastic, but Harry still finds it deliriously arousing. He smiles down at him, and Louis smiles back, a little shyly. He presses his face into Harry’s chest, making himself small. Harry’s hands slink down to Louis’s arse, squeezing gently, and Louis makes a sound like a squeak and his arms go to Harry’s shoulders, hands cupped behind his neck. He removes his face from Harry’s chest to make eye contact, and finds Harry already staring at him hotly, eyes dark and unapologetically wanting. Louis flushes under its intensity, combined with the bright, flashing lights, the sinful beat of the music, the way that Harry’s hips mimic the beat perfectly as they roll into his, hands shamelessly groping his arse. Harry can feel Louis’s heightened arousal, pressed against his thigh, and gives him a filthy smirk.  
  
“What do you say we take this to mine?” Harry asks lowly, mouth closing in a kiss beside Louis’s ear. Louis nods, a little desperately, Harry notes with satisfaction.   
  
“Hold on,” he says breathlessly, “I have to say bye to Liam and Zayn.” Harry watches his perfect arse as he scampers over to the booth, leaning over the couple to inform them of his plans. Liam nods, gnawing at his lip worriedly, and Zayn grabs Louis’s wrist, with a stern look. Harry frowns at the exchange. Louis’s face looks pleading, and he removes his wrist from Zayn’s tight grip to hold Zayn by the shoulders. He says something earnestly, and Zayn acquiesces. Louis kisses them both on the cheek and returns to Harry with a beaming smile.   
  
“Ready, love?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says slowly, glancing at Liam and Zayn over his shoulder.  
  
“Don’t mind them,” Louis says quickly.  
  
“But how good advice is that, really?” Harry pushes, taking Louis by the waist as he ushers them out the door. He spares one last look back at Liam and Zayn. “They look like they’re prepared to gun me down any minute.”  
  
“Oh, they are,” Louis says cheerfully. “But don’t worry, love. As long as you behave like a proper gentleman, the wrath of Zayn will be kept sealed up tight. For the time being, anyway.”  
  
As soon as they make it outside of the club, Harry pushes Louis up against the wall and boxes him in, looming over him with his arm curled over his head. Louis swallows, glancing up at Harry from beneath his eyelashes, flustered. Harry grins, sharklike, before leaning down to whisper hotly, “And what if the things I’m planning on doing to you aren’t exactly considered ‘gentlemanly’?”   
  
Louis flushes, struggling to meet Harry’s eyes -- the green almost overwhelmed by the dark pit of his pupils. He clenches his jaw and leans up to whisper, “I guess we’ll have to keep those things a secret then, won’t we?”  
  
Harry grins briefly before diving in to kiss Louis. He’s startled at first by the pressure, hot and soft and hard all at once, but his mouth eventually opens to Harry’s tongue. He licks inside Louis’s mouth, gentle, exploring, then harsher, dragging his tongue alongside Louis’s before biting down on his lip. Louis pants, grabbing a handful of Harry’s hair and pulling him in closer. Harry tears his mouth away to stare Louis down, drinking in the flushed cheeks, the red bruised mouth, the slightly disheveled hair and those wide blue eyes. Harry dips his head down to nip at Louis’s bottom lip again, panting at his cheek. “I can’t fucking wait to put my hands on you.”  
  
Louis responds by shoving his leg in between Harry’s thighs, so Harry can feel his arousal pressed against his pants. Harry licks his lips slowly, tucking two fingers under Louis’s chin so he’s forced to look him in the eye. “Cab or walk?”  
  
“My knees are feeling a bit wobbly, so I’m going to go with cab. I’ll pay, if you want,” Louis says, a bit shakily. Harry rubs his thumb along Louis’s cheek, fondly.  
  
“Nonsense, I’ve got it.”  
  
“Look at you, Curly, you’re a proper Prince Charming,” Louis says brightly, pinching at Harry’s cheek before waving down a cab. Harry openly admires Louis’s arse when he crawls into the backseat, patting the space next to him for Harry to slide in.   
  
Louis climbs into Harry’s lap as soon as he’s given his address to the driver. He presses their foreheads together conspiratorially and whispers, “Listen, Harry, I’m going to tell you straight up. I’ve just gotten out of a relationship so I’m looking to be a bit of a slut tonight. I’m going to need you to fuck my troubles away. Are you up for the challenge?”  
  
“I was born for the job,” Harry says, equally serious, brushing his nose against Louis’s.  
  
“Excellent. You’re hired. Your first task is to make this cabbie driver extremely uncomfortable.”  
  
“Done,” Harry murmurs, yanking Louis down by a handful of his arse, rolling their hips together filthily. Louis gasps at the rough handling, and Harry takes the opportunity to lick into Louis’s open mouth, dragging his tongue along the roof, making Louis grab on to his hair with want. He feels Louis’s erection poking through his tight pants, and he grabs it, squeezing.  
  
“Looks like you’ve got a big dick to match that fine arse of yours,” Harry says, just loud enough for the cabbie to hear. Louis laughs into Harry’s mouth, hot breath ghosting over his lips, and presses his groin further into Harry’s hand.

-

When they finally arrive at Louis’s flat, the driver looks sufficiently pink-cheeked. Harry pinches Louis’s arse when he crawls out, eliciting a breathy giggle. Harry points at the driver, who shifts uncomfortably when Louis hands him a wad of cash.  
  
“Have I succeeded?” Harry whispers, crowding behind Louis, his breath hot and smoky in Louis’s ear.   
  
“Yes, and you get a reward.”  
  
“A reward?” Harry parrots happily.  
  
“Yes, babe. But I’m afraid it’ll have to wait ‘til we’re inside, unless you want my pretty arse locked up in jail."  
  
“I don’t want that. I have a feeling that prison would not bode well for your pretty arse.”  
  
“Correct, love. Here, let’s go up the lift.” Louis takes Harry by the hand and pins him against the wall while they travel up to Louis’s flat, pressing his cheek against the long, elegant bow of Harry’s collarbone.   
  
Louis barely waits until they’re inside the door before he’s shoving Harry against it and yanking down his pants, slipping to his knees and kissing Harry’s cock through his underwear. Harry reaches down to pull at Louis’s head, make him go faster, but Louis slaps his hands away. He bends forward, soaking Harry’s underwear with his mouth and Harry’s precome, kissing down until he’s found Harry’s balls. Finally, his fingers reach up and he pulls his underwear down to his knees.   
  
Louis sits back on his heels, admiring Harry’s cock.   
  
“You’re massive,” he says, smiling giddily. Harry ruffles Louis’s hair.   
  
“Can I please touch you now?” He begs.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
With Louis’s permission, Harry curls his fingers in the hair at the back of Louis’s head, pushing him forward onto his cock.   
  
“Kiss the head,” Harry says breathlessly, air abandoning his lungs in a violent whoosh when Louis eagerly obeys, pressing his lips to the come-smeared head of Harry’s cock in a reverent kiss. Louis presses more light, butterfly kisses up the entire length of his cock, occasionally nipping gently at Harry’s thighs as he travels up. He takes Harry by the base, feeling its heaviness in his hand as his tongue individually worships every winding vein. He drags his nail lightly on the underside of Harry’s cock as his mouth wraps completely around the head, and Harry groans almost hysterically above him, fingers tightening maddeningly in Louis’s hair.   
  
“Can you take the whole thing?” He says desperately, rubbing his thumb along the steep curve of Louis’s cheekbone. He holds his thumb there as Louis takes him deeper and deeper, filling his mouth slowly, agonizingly, and holding himself there with practiced concentration as Harry dazedly pokes at his own cock pressing against the inside of Louis’s soft cheek. Louis suddenly sucks hard and his cheeks hollow out, and Harry watches the flutter of flesh with fascination, feeling his own knees beginning to buckle as Louis determinedly fits more and more of Harry’s length inside until he’s actually deepthroating him.  
  
Harry literally feels weak, because even with all the sex he’s had, he’s never met anyone who could deep throat him before, and he feels like both pushing Louis down even further and spinning him around and kissing him until there’s nothing left of his mouth but a tender red bruise. He fists the back of Louis’s head again, pushing him down, feeling his throat muscles flutter against him, and it’s blinding, the flash of arousal that Harry feels tingling in all of his limbs. Louis looks up at him, eyelashes fluttering weakly, blue eyes slowly welling up with tears the longer Harry holds him there. His hands, which had been curled around the base of Harry’s cock, grip at Harry’s hipbones, kneading the flesh there, pleading desperately, and Harry finally lets him go. Louis slides off painfully, throat aching, and before Harry even has the time to blink Louis looks determined again, his cheeks hollowing as his throat expands around Harry’s cock again.   
  
Louis squeezes Harry’s arse, as if granting him permission again, and Harry starts fucking Louis’s mouth. Louis crosses his wrists behind his back, as if assuring Harry that he can take it, and Harry’s hips stutter a little in their onslaught because  _fuck_ if that isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen: Louis’s eyelashes resting against his pink, hollowed-out cheeks, Harry’s cock disappearing behind them in a steady, vicious rhythm, his pink lips stretched obscenely wide as Harry uses his mouth and Louis just  _takes it,_ keeping one hand tucked submissively behind his back while his other hand pumps desperately at his own cock.   
  
“Can I, Louis --” Harry gasps, feeling his orgasm building angrily, and Louis is nodding, tipping his head back, his eyes shut tightly and Harry realizes that Louis wants him to come on his face. He almost collapses, right then, feeling his knees shaking, his heart pounding against his temples, but he’s conscious enough to pull out of Louis’s throat and point his cock at his face. His orgasm comes like a wave of thunder, so powerful it almost hurts as his come spurts over Louis’s lips, streaking across his chin, the sharp cut of his cheekbones. Louis parts his lips so that some of it lands straight in his mouth.   
  
Harry collapses to his knees weakly, taking Louis by the back of the head and kissing him with almost painful desperation, hard and sloppy so he can taste his own come in Louis’s throat. He pulls away, staring at Louis dazedly, drinking in the slight of Louis’s dark, wet mouth, swollen and wrecked, his red-rimmed blue eyes, the streak of come on his cheek. Harry wipes it off on his finger and feeds it to Louis, who accepts it without protest, staring wetly into Harry’s eyes and scooting forward on his knees, almost pleading.  
  
Harry realizes that Louis still hasn’t come, so he bends down, removes Louis’s cock from his underwear and sucks him hard, sloppily, wanting it to be as good as Louis’s was for him. Louis comes in a handful of seconds, and Harry swallows it down to the best of his ability, feeling Louis beg quietly above him, winding his fingers in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. He pulls Harry up to his mouth when he’s finished, slotting their knees together on the hardwood.  
  
They still have barely made it past Louis’s door.   
  
Harry laughs breathily at the realization, falling back against the wall and gathering Louis into his lap, inhaling deeply against his neck. “That was the best blowjob I’ve ever had,” he whispers honestly, his lips ghosting against Louis’s throat. Louis laughs, and Harry feels his adam’s apple bob against his mouth.  
  
“I mean it.”  
  
“Yeah, alright.”  
  
“Louis, seriously -- where did you learn how to do that?” Harry asks earnestly. Louis looks down at him, feeling his own pulse race under the skin of his wrist when Harry grabs him there, studying Harry’s serious, gorgeous little face with a wistful sigh.  
  
“Didn’t I tell you I’m sort of a slut?” He says finally, hoping it sounds like a joke.   
  
“Well, yeah, so am I. And I’ve still never had a blowjob as good as that. You’re amazing,” he says sincerely, pressing his mouth messily against Louis’s cheekbone, remembering how it felt to feel his cock pressed inside of it. He sighs happily, his large hands roaming along the expanse of Louis’s back.   
  
“Yours was -- yours was good too,” Louis says, and Harry just laughs.  
  
“Please, it’s okay, I know I’m a bit out of practice. I’ve been with uh, a lot of women lately.”  
  
“And not one of them can deepthroat?” Louis prods.  
  
Harry shakes his head.  
  
“Well,” Louis says loudly, staring down at Harry’s wet, flaccid dick with his hand canted to the side. “To be fair, it really is quite ridiculous. I mean, how long is that thing?”  
  
“Um...I dunno, I’ve never measured it before.”  
  
“Liar.”  
  
“I haven’t, I swear!” Harry says, wide-eyed. Louis quirks an eyebrow.  
  
“Everyone measures their dick. I’m a six-incher myself. Which is, you know, average or whatever, but it’s quite thick. You look to be about 8 or 9.”  
  
Harry just shrugs, blushing a little.   
  
“Harry, that’s huge.”  
  
“It -- yeah, it is,” he says, cheeks flushed. Louis grins at him. “Look, I’m sorry, there’s no way to talk about my prick without sounding like a cocky arsehole.”  
  
“A  _cocky_ arsehole, hm?” Louis says cheekily, flicking Harry’s dick with his forefinger.  
  
“Oh my god,” Harry groans, hiding his face in Louis’s shoulder. “I swear, that was a pun  _unintended._ ”  
  
“You’re telling a lot of lies tonight, babe,” Louis says, flicking Harry’s dick again. “So, are you and your giant penis ready to go again?”  
  
“Give -- give me a minute,” Harry says weakly. Louis shrugs, standing up, holding out his hand to heave Harry to his feet. They finally leave the shadows of Louis’s foyer, collapsing onto his couch. Harry throws his feet onto Louis’s coffee table.  
  
“You mind?”   
  
“Do whatever you want, mate, this place is a hideous pigsty.”   
  
Harry suddenly grabs Louis by the wrist, tugging him closer. He reaches out with his other hand to thumb away a stray smudge of come off Louis’s cheek, wiping the remnants on Louis’s bottom lip, whose tongue darts out to lick it away.  
  
“You waited to remove that until now?” Louis demands.  
  
“What? You look good covered in my spunk.”  
  
“Oh, jeez, thanks, keep the compliments coming, please--”   
  
Harry cuts him off, stabbing his tongue hotly into Louis’s mouth, shutting him up. Louis crawls back into Harry’s lap and grinds his hips into Harry’s fitfully, tightening his knees around Harry’s middle until his ass is positioned right above Harry’s naked cock.   
  
“Consider this a preview,” he whispers with a dirty grin, curling his arm around Harry’s neck and pulling him down to nip at his bottom lip.  
  
“I think I’d rather put you on your back,” Harry responds hotly, allowing his neck to be gnawed on as Louis’s mouth trails restlessly over his skin. “Or maybe on your belly, face down, arse up.” He squeezes Louis’s arse as it’s mentioned, and Louis whines into his shoulder, scattering tiny teethmarks across Harry’s flesh.   
  
“You’re a bit obsessed with my arse.”  
  
“It’s the best I’ve ever seen,” Harry says shamelessly. “I want to do horrible, beautiful things to it.”  
  
“Like what?” Louis breathes, hair tickling Harry’s chin as he ducks down to mouth at Harry’s collarbones.  
  
“Well first I want to fuck you until you can’t see straight,” Harry says calmly, squeezing his arse again and hearing Louis’s breath hitch. “I want to fuck you until you cry,” he says slowly, deliberately, thumb dragging teasingly over Louis’s arsehole, applying a dull pressure but not enough for the flesh to yield to him entirely. “Until you want to beg but you can’t because you can barely make coherent speech.”  
  
Louis whimpers, high in his throat, and Harry grabs him by the scruff of his neck, forcing his head back. Louis tries to close his eyes, but Harry hisses “look at me,” and Louis is obeying in spite of himself, eyes boring helplessly into Harry’s. “When I’m through with you,” Harry whispers, breath hot and close at Louis’s mouth. “I’ll throw you onto your belly and rim your hot, freshly fucked little arsehole until you’re screaming loud enough for the whole building to hear.”  
  
Louis exhales shakily against Harry’s forehead, hands fluttering at his shoulders. Harry pulls his head down, kissing him deeply before picking him up under his arse and whispering, “Where’s your bedroom, babe?”  
  
“Left of the kitchen,” Louis breathes, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re just going to fucking carry me then, is that it?”   
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Are you some kind of barbarian?”  
  
“Why don’t you tell me?” Harry squeezes Louis’s arse again.  
  
“I’m gonna have fucking nail marks embedded in my arse if you keep doing that.”  
  
“I’m literally incapable of stopping. You have the most fuckable arse I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“Well, I’d fucking better, otherwise I wouldn’t be in--”  _Porn._ Louis cuts himself off awkwardly, playing it off by attaching his mouth to Harry’s neck as he’s manhandled through his own apartment.   
  
“Be in what?”  
  
“Be in a position to have sex with you,” Louis says smoothly, praying his voice doesn’t betray him. “Face it -- you wouldn’t be interested in me if it weren’t for my arse.”  
  
“We’ve been over this. Do you need me to prove it to you?”  
  
“I’m absolutely going to need you to prove it to me.”  
  
“Fine then. But I’m warning you -- it’s going to be extremely pleasant for you and you’re probably going to fall in love with me.”  
  
“That’s a big arrogant, isn’t it?”  
  
“Bit  _cocky,_ really.”  
  
Louis slaps Harry’s cheek lightly, earning him a nip on the jaw. They arrive at Louis’s bedroom, where Harry unceremoniously dumps Louis on the bed, collapsing on top of him with an unmanly giggle.   
  
“See, there I was, all turned on and whatever because you just picked me up like a fucking Disney prince, and then you have to go and  _giggle,_ and look, now my boner’s gone--”   
  
Harry cuts him off with a rough “shut up,” pushing Louis flat on his back with a hand on his chest, before diving down to suck his bottom lip into his mouth, reaching down to twist his hand at the base of Louis’s cock, still wet from his come.  
  
“And now you’re back,” Harry whispers into Louis’s mouth, voice deep and gravelly. Louis gulps, blood streaming south, wriggling desperately under Harry. Harry laughs, rumbling against Louis’s throat, teeth scratching against his neck.  
  
“Turn over,” Harry orders softly, and Louis squirms to obey, rolling his hips into the sheets to get more friction against his cock.   
  
“You’re gonna get your sheets all dirty if you keep doing that,” Harry says, low and smoky in Louis’s ear, lips brushing against the soft little hairs that fall on the side of Louis’s neck.   
  
“Do I look like a give a single flying fuck about being dirty?” Louis demands. Harry chuckles against Louis’s shoulder blade, smooth under his lips. He kisses down the obscene arch of Louis’s back, spine bending in a deep bow under Harry’s mouth, skin silky and tan as Harry trails his fingers down the notches of Louis’s spine. He looks clean and golden-skinned and flawless, and the desire to fuck him up, to  _wreck_  him, stirs deep in Harry’s gut, itching in his fingertips. He sinks his teeth in the delicious curve where Louis’s back meets his arse, and Louis mewls into the bed, raising his arse higher in the air until his spine curves so steeply it looks painful. Harry reaches around to stick two fingers in Louis’s mouth, still kissing and sucking at the dimples in the small of his back while Louis’s tongue works on his fingers.   
  
Harry wishes he could watch Louis’s face when the first finger finally sinks into his arse, but the noises he makes are just as hot -- a gasp, a little whine high in his throat, a “please” -- and Harry slips the second finger along side it, biting at Louis’s arse at the same time his finger finally makes contact with his prostate.   
  
Louis buries his face in his arms, biting desperately at his knuckles as he tries not to cry out. His cock is fully hard now, but his hips are lifted too high off the bed for him to get any friction. He hears Harry sucking on another finger before the third one slides inside, and his hips dive down into the bed, grinding desperately, earning him a sharp slap on his arse.  
  
“Ow!” He protests, whipping his head around to glare at Harry over his shoulder. Harry just grins filthily, his hair falling into his eyes, a little damp with sweat. He leans over Louis’s body, with three fingers still buried inside him, to kiss Louis deeply, tongues sliding against each other slowly while Harry’s fingers find a similar rhythm inside him.   
  
Finally, he removes his fingers and his tongue, pressing a quick kiss to Louis’s soft cheek before tapping him lightly on the arse. “Come on, babe, up on your hands and knees.”  
  
“But that’s so much work...” Louis whines, turning his face into the bed.   
  
“Oh get up, lazy arse.” Harry heaves Louis up by the hips, forcing him onto his knees.   
  
“Manhandler,” Louis mutters, cheeks flushing as he hears Harry searching through his drawers.  
  
“Where are your condoms?”   
  
“Um...check under the bed.”  
  
Harry obliges, finally unearthing an absurdly gigantic box of condoms.   
  
“Two questions: one, why were these under the bed and two, why do you have a box big enough to sustain an army?”  
  
“Easy access for the first one, and well...‘I’m easy’ fits the second question as well.”  
  
“You actually go through all these?” Harry demands.  
  
“Sure,” Louis says airily. “Lube should be in the drawer. Though it might be all used up. If it is, I’ve got like, eleven different kinds in my bathroom. Do you like strawberry?”  
  
“Wow,” Harry says, a little breathlessly. “You might actually give me a run for my money. And here I thought I was a proper manwhore.”  
  
“I put the ‘loose’ in Louis, mate.”  
  
“But that doesn’t quite work,” Harry counters. “‘Loose’ isn’t actually in the name Louis--”  
  
“Shh!” Louis cuts him off. “It was very clever. Don’t argue with me. Is there any lube left in there or not?”  
  
“Uh...” Harry digs up the bottle from Louis’s cluttered side drawer. “Yeah, there’s enough. Besides, I already loosened you up.”  
  
“Yeah, but that giant fucking prick of yours, mate.”  
  
“What?” Harry says, inspecting his cock. “Are you afraid it won’t fit or something?”  
  
“No, no, no...I’ve had bigger,” Louis says breezily.   
  
Harry’s mouth gapes open.   
  
“Well that’s a bit of an arrogant reaction, isn’t it!” Louis says, raising his eyebrows. “But don’t worry, babe. You’re still high on the roster. Wouldn’t want to bruise your precious ego, or anything.”  
  
“Listen,  _babe_ ,” Harry growls, squirting a dollop of lube onto his finger and sliding it back into Louis’s arse. He whimpers weakly as Harry continues, “You might’ve taken larger, but I promise you, but the time I’m finished with your arse, I’ll feel like the biggest fucking thing you’ve ever taken.”  
  
“You should be in porn or something, with that kind of dirty talk--” Louis returns cheekily, breaking off in a gasp when he feels the cold trickle of lube sliding over his arse. He hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper behind him, the slick sound of latex and lube as Harry rolls the condom on, and Harry’s low groan behind him.   
  
Harry takes Louis by the knees and roughly pries his thighs further apart. The muscles in Louis’s shoulders bunch as Harry grips his hips tightly, the tip of his cock pressing against his opening.  
  
With barely any pretense, Harry pushes himself inside, managing to sink in about halfway before pulling out until the just the tip remains. Louis gasps, head hanging low between his shoulders, sweat trickling from his hairline. Harry bites into his lip, squeezing Louis’s hips before entering him again, a little rougher, and repeating the process.  
  
“You’re so tight,” he groans, admiring the sight of his own cock slowly disappearing into Louis’s arse, inch by inch. He finally makes it all the way inside, cheeks flushing darkly. He bends over Louis, chest resting against his back and scrapes his teeth along Louis’s neck, who hangs his head even further, panting.  
  
“You alright, Louis?” Harry asks, landing a few sweet kisses along the curve of Louis’s jaw. Again, he finds himself wishing he could see Louis’s face, but this angle is so hot to Harry, and he gets to watch Louis’s perfect arse.  
  
“Yeah, just -- try to move, yeah?” Louis begs roughly, knuckles whitening when he grabs a fistful of sheet. Harry puts his hands over Louis’s, and they engulf them completely. He strokes his thumb along Louis’s wrist, gently, kissing him on the neck one last time before leaning back and pulling out.   
  
This time, when he re-enters Louis, he shoves in his entire length in one, smooth thrust. Louis cries out, collapsing forward onto his elbows as his entire body is wracked forward with the force of Harry’s thrust. He presses his face into his forearms, mewling a little, hips rolling as he tries to get some sort of pressure against his cock, which is so hard it’s almost stuck to his stomach, smearing precome across his belly.  
  
Harry repeats the motion, pulling out until just the tip is inside and then shoving himself all the way in, over and over until he finds a rhythm. Louis feels amazing -- he’s almost impossibly tight and yet his arse yields to everything Harry gives him. Harry bends over Louis’s body again, molding his chest against the steep bow of Louis’s spine, sweat plastering their skin together while his hips pound relentlessly into Louis. He uncrosses Louis’s arms and plants his hands on the bed, then covers them with his own, burying his face into the back of Louis’s neck, biting at the curve of his shoulder.   
  
“Harry,  _please,_ my cock--”   
  
Harry ignores him, biting down harder, squeezing at Louis’s wrists. Louis mewls beneath him, nearly choking when Harry increases his speed even more, pounding into Louis’s arse mercilessly.   
  
“Please, please, please--” Louis cries out desperately, and Harry cuts him off, pulling out roughly before yanking Louis onto his back. Louis lands in a sprawl of limbs, cock lying angry and red against his stomach, but Harry still ignores it. He shoves back into Louis and resumes his cruel pace, taking Louis by the ankles and spreading his legs as far as they stretch.  
  
“Harry--” Louis gasps, crying out into the crook of his elbow, eyes wild and blue, staring desperately up at Harry.   
  
Harry stares into his eyes, eyes dark under the hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and pounds into him harder, hitting his prostate over and over again until Louis finally breaks, tears finally spilling out of his eyes while he begs Harry to touch him. Harry shuts him up with a kiss, pinning Louis’s wrists to the bed and leaning over him until he can feel Louis’s cock brush wetly against his belly. Louis’s face is wet against his, and Harry can’t help but stroke along his cheek, soft and hot and tear-stained beneath his thumb. He looks beautiful and wrecked like this, panting imploringly against Harry’s mouth. He leans down to steal another kiss.   
  
“I want you to come from just my cock. Can you do that?” Harry asks. He can’t help but feel proud of himself for sounding so composed.  
  
“I don’t -- I don’t know,  _I don’t know_ \--” Louis whimpers, hips lifting off the bed so he can press his cock harder against Harry’s stomach. Harry digs his nails into Louis’s wrists but allows him to rut against him. He refuses to let Louis break eye contact, watching those wet, red-rimmed blue eyes grow wilder and wilder as his orgasm rolls inside him.  
  
When it finally crashes down, cock spurting urgently between their stomachs, Harry finds himself losing it too, the pressure on his cock mounting and mounting until finally shooting inside Louis, mouth gasping wet against Louis’s as he rides out his orgasm. Louis nearly sobs when he comes, body shaking under Harry, falling limp and weak as he bites into the inside of his wrist, eyes screwed shut and leaking tears as his hips rut helplessly into Harry’s stomach. Harry buries his face in the hollow of Louis’s throat, mouth open and wet against his skin as he releases his load, body falling slack on top of Louis. He doesn’t pull out for a while -- just holds himself inside until their breathing slows. He can feel Louis’s pulse racing through his wrist; he kisses it, comforting, listening to Louis’s shaky exhale.   
  
“Shh,” Harry hushes, kissing Louis gently. He pulls back, combing back Louis’s hair while he takes deep, calming breaths, staring wetly into Harry’s eyes like he’s some sort of anchor. Harry kisses his forehead, the apples of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his chin, the top of his head, and puts two fingers on the pulse in Louis’s neck, feels it slow down under his touch.   
  
“Can I clean you up?” Harry whispers, and Louis nods, still staring dazedly into his eyes. Harry goes to his bathroom and finds a clean washcloth. He holds it under the sink before returning to Louis and running it gently over his forehead, his mouth, his throat, his stomach, his cock, between his thighs.   
  
“Roll over, love.” Louis complies, weakly, flopping onto his stomach. Harry takes a moment to admire the smooth, glistening plane of Louis’s back, pressing reverent little kisses down his spine before cleaning up the sweat pooled in the small of his back and under his hairline.   
  
He gives himself the same treatment, though more carelessly, then flicks off the light and climbs into bed with Louis. He snuggles into Louis’s back, kissing the nape of his neck before falling asleep.  
  
And only once does he think of Lucy Hall.

-

Louis wakes up to the smell of eggs and bacon which is confusing for many reasons: 1) He doesn’t own any eggs or bacon. 2) If he did have eggs and bacon he would have no earthly idea what to do with them. 3) Liam and Zayn can’t cook for shit either. 4) His mum isn’t in town. 5) Donald kicked his sorry ass to the curb.  
  
And then he remembers: Harry.   
  
He fumbles at his nightstand for his glasses, shoving them on his face before stumbling out of bed and grabbing a random t-shirt off the floor. He pulls it over his head and instantly recognizes that it isn’t his own -- it’s far too baggy and it doesn’t smell like him. He tugs on a pair of underwear and wanders into his kitchen, smiling at the sight of Harry looming over his stove.   
  
Louis clears his throat loudly, and Harry jumps, almost knocking over the pan with a flustered flail of arms. He swallows tightly at the sight of Louis, drinking in the glasses and the sex hair and the oversize shirt --  _his_ shirt, actually -- and the little underwear.   
  
“Hello, love,” Louis says brightly, hopping onto the counter. “I had the most remarkable dream. I met this gorgeous lad who looked a lot like my troll of an ex-boyfriend, just without the troll part, and also the having a bigger cock part, and a better face and a better everything in general. Anyways, in the dream, this man gave me the shag of a lifetime. It was all puppies and rainbows and semen. Isn’t that lovely?”  
  
“You’re lovely,” Harry says roughly, stepping in between Louis’s legs to kiss him. Louis pushes him away, wincing.  
  
“You don’t want to do that, mate, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet--”  
  
“I don’t care,” Harry cuts him off, taking him by the back of his neck and tugging Louis forward. Louis hitches his thighs around Harry’s waist, squeezing tightly when Harry nips at his bottom lip.  
  
“You look good enough to eat,” Harry mumbles against Louis’s mouth.  
  
Louis blushes. “Should’ve considered that before you went and made that little feast over there. Where the hell did you get all that anyways? All I’ve got in my fridge is beer and pizza boxes.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I had to ask your neighbors if I could borrow some stuff.”  
  
“What? I don’t believe you. My neighbors would never give me anything. They hate my guts. They’ve even called the cops on me before.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Noise complaint. Headboard banging and screaming, or something.”   
  
Harry shakes his head, blushing. “You’re ridiculous. Anyways, I got them to give me eggs and bacon, so apparently they don’t hate you  _that_ much.”  
  
“No, you’re just a charming little bugger, and that sex-starved old lady probably just wants in your pants,” Louis says cheekily, ruffling Harry’s hair.  
  
Harry’s cheeks turn a little pink, and he turns back to the stove to shovel the food on plates. “You better like this masterpiece of a breakfast,” he says, digging around Louis’s drawers looking for silverware. “I flirted with an old woman for you.”  
  
“My hero!” Louis swoons, hopping down from the counter to peck Harry on the cheek. “I’ll make us tea!”   
  
Harry pinches his arse as he bends over to retrieve the kettle. Louis squeaks, slamming the kettle on the counter before diving in to tickle Harry’s stomach, who squeals like a little girl.  
  
“Harry, I’m appalled. I’m also delighted. That was the least manly noise I’ve heard in my entire life.”  
  
“Shut up!” Harry says, pouting, hugging himself around the middle protectively.   
  
Louis puts the kettle on and leans back against the counter, admiring Harry openly. He’s shirtless, and wearing a pair of Louis’s baggiest sweatpants.   
  
“Did you go to the neighbors like that?”  
  
Harry nods. He looks at least a little ashamed.  
  
“Well no wonder they gave you the damn food -- look at you! Whore.”  
  
“I made you breakfast!” Harry protests. “Be nice to me.”  
  
“Fine, fine,” Louis sighs. He pours their tea and sits down at the table. Harry sets down his food with a queer little bow that almost makes Louis snort up his tea.   
  
He begins shoveling food into his mouth, and looks up to find Harry staring at him intensely. He swallows self-consciously. “Er...is there something on my face?”  
  
“No, no,” Harry says quickly, returning to his food.   
  
They eat in silence for a long moment before Harry asks, a little nervously, “Is it uh...is it good?”  
  
“It’s fucking great,” Louis exclaims through a mouthful of egg. His fork clatters to the plate when he’s finished, leaning back with a happy sigh. Harry smiles to himself, and Louis watches him eat for a moment -- his long fingers completely engulfing his mug of tea, the jumping muscle in his jaw when he chews, his full red lips wrapped around his fork. Their eyes meet as Harry takes his last sip of tea, adam’s apple bobbing suggestively when he swallows.   
  
“What are you doing after this?” Louis finds himself asking. He instantly feels stupid for it, but it’s already out.  
  
Harry blinks at him, rinsed in the milky morning light spilling from Louis’s window. His eyes look absurdly green, and sun falls like a halo in his hair. Louis gulps, feeling dumber and dumber as the seconds tick by, waiting for Harry to answer.   
  
“I’m uh...going to meet with my manager. We’re gonna record some new songs,” Harry says hoarsely.  
  
“Oh. Are you um...are you a musician or something?”  
  
“Yeah, I sing. And er, write songs.   
  
“So you’re a singer songwriter,” Louis says, with a little grin.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry blushes. “But I can’t say that myself or else I sound like a twat.”  
  
Louis just shrugs, processing the information. It somehow makes sense that Harry is musical. Louis might’ve guessed painter, or writer, or student -- but with that voice and that face and those  _hands_ \-- yes. Musician makes perfect sense.  
  
“What about you?” Harry clears his throat. “What do you do?”  
  
Louis swallows, finally breaking their gaze to stare down at his lap. “I’m an actor.” The lie feels tight and diseased in his throat, scratchy, like a record that’s not meant to play anymore.   
  
Harry’s eyebrows perk up with interest. “Oh yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I can see that,” Harry grins, eyes flicking up and down Louis’s body. “Yeah, I can definitely see that. So you do film, theater -- what?”  
  
“Uh, theatre, mostly. Hoping to get into film. I’ve done a few commercials and stuff too.”  
  
“Do you have an agent?”  
  
Louis licks his lips. He hadn’t thought that far. “No. I’m looking, though.”  
  
“We’re sort of in the same boat, then,” Harry says earnestly. “I’m looking for a label right now.”  
  
“You’re unsigned?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says bitterly. “I almost had a deal with Warner, like it was a really close thing, but they cut me off.”   
  
Louis’s stare is sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he says quietly.   
  
Harry just stares back, intensely -- practically pinning Louis to his chair. After a long silence, he says roughly, “You should uh -- you should wear your glasses more.”  
  
Louis smiles, feeling almost  _shy,_ which is ridiculous. “Thank you.”  
  
“And my shirt. You look really good in my shirt.”  
  
Louis thinks he looks like an idiot -- the shirt practically swallows him whole. He’s almost swimming in it. But it’s comfortable, and it smells like Harry, like something musky and earthy with hints of his cologne and laundry detergent.   
  
“You look really fucking good without a shirt,” Louis returns, openly leering at Harry’s perfectly sculpted torso. “I almost don’t believe in you. To be honest, I’m a little creeped out. I’ve been secretly harboring a small but powerful suspicion that you’re actually just a robot or a mirage or like a freakishly realistic sex doll or something.”  
  
Harry laughs, pink-cheeked, teeth gleaming white in the sun. Louis almost has to squint at the brightness. He’s literally  _painfully_ attractive.   
  
Harry glances down at his phone, paling slightly, quickly standing up from the table. “Shit,” he mutters. “I told Nick I’d meet him at 11.”  
  
Louis watches him as he runs back to Louis’s room, returning a few moments later wearing his plaid shirt from the night before, half-unbuttoned to reveal his bare chest.   
  
“Don’t you want your undershirt back?” Louis asks as Harry begins walking towards the door.  
  
“Not really. It looks better on you, babe,” Harry winks, flicking his curls to the side.   
  
He opens the door, and Louis springs up from his chair but stops, tentatively, before approaching Harry. “Can I um...” Louis stares down at his feet. “Can I see you again? Please?”  
  
Louis expects an awkward response but Harry just furrows his eyebrows at him, confused. “Of course. I already stored my number in your phone. I was gonna just put “Harry” but you already had like 7 Harry’s. So then I went for the classic “Tall Dark and Handsome” but amazingly, you already had one of them too. So I think I’m in there as “Curly Big Cock” -- which I now regret, because that makes it sounds like I have a curly penis, which is quite disgusting -- but I figured you’d at least immediately know who it is, yeah?”  
  
Louis just stares at him, open-mouthed.  
  
“I’ve ruined all chances at seeing you again, haven’t I?” Harry says pathetically.  
  
“Quite the contrary,” Louis says airily. “You’ve increased them exponentially. ‘Curly Big Cock,’ I assure you, you will not be forgotten.”  
  
Harry kisses his cheek shyly before finally leaving. Louis refrains from sliding down the door after it closes.   
  
\--  
  
Three hours later, Louis finds himself in a cafe with Zayn.  
  
“What’ve you got this week?”  
  
Louis closes his eyes. “Er, solo today -- and then on Wednesday I’m with that new guy -- giant bloke, huge cock. And next Monday they want me to do a shoot with that twinky kid, the skinny ginger one.” Louis takes a sip of his tea. “Anyways, I’m not looking forward to the solo today. They’re probably going to have toys.”  
  
“And that’s a problem? You love toys.”  
  
“Yeah, but I had a really good shag last night, so sitting’s been a bit of a...delicate matter today, that’s all.”  
  
“Ah. With that curly-haired guy from last night?”  
  
Louis nods, avoiding Zayn’s eye. “His name’s Harry.”  
  
“Looks a bit like Donald, doesn’t he?”   
  
Louis can feel Zayn’s eyes boring into the top of his head.   
  
“You -- you thought so?”  
  
“It was pretty fucking uncanny.”  
  
Louis shrugs, trying his best to appear nonchalant. “Eh. Harry’s cock’s bigger.”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly know a thing like that, would I--”  
  
“And Harry’s better-looking. Got abs like an underwear model.”  
  
“Interesting, Louis.”  
  
Louis’s eyes snap up to Zayn’s. “What? Fuck, Zayn, if you’ve got something snarky to say, please do it quickly.”  
  
Zayn throws his hands in the air, innocently. “I’m just looking out for you, mate. That’s all. Promise.”  
  
“There’s no need,” Louis mutters. “He was just a quick shag, that’s all. And tonight I’ll have someone totally different. And someone else after that.”  
  
“So you’re getting back into the swing of things, huh?” Zayn says, looking at Louis knowingly.   
  
“I don’t see why not,” Louis says, crossing his arms defensively. “Relationships are shit and I’m shit at them. This is easier. And better. And funner.”  
  
“Funner isn’t a word, Louis--”  
  
“Alright, thanks, Professor Malik,” Louis snaps.   
  
Zayn raises his eyebrows. “Look, darling--”  
  
“Don’t call me darling,” Louis warns, mouth tightening into a thin line.   
  
“Fine. I’m sorry. I just get worried. You know that’s all it is.”  
  
“Babe, I’m fine. I’m really, really fine. Okay?”   
  
Zayn nods reluctantly.  
  
“Excellent. Good talk. Now hold on a minute, ‘cause I’ve got to whiz.”  
  
Zayn nods, finishing off his tea. Louis’s phone buzzes on the table, so he picks it up and glances at the screen, which reads “ _Message from ‘Curly Big Cock._ ’” He shudders, disgusted, throwing the phone back onto the table like it’s some sort of insect.   
  
When Louis returns, Zayn holds up the phone accusingly, eyebrows raised, demanding an explanation.   
  
“I didn’t store it like that I swear.”  
  
“You’re a foul creature, Louis Tomlinson.”  
  
“I swear! I really didn’t! Harry put in there as--”  
  
“Oh, this is  _Harry,_ is it?” Zayn prods.   
  
Louis snatches the phone away as it dawns on him: Harry. Harry is actually texting him. He didn’t take his number just to be polite, as dictated by courteous one night stand decorum. He took it because --  
  
“ _Dinner at the place we first met?_ ” Zayn snatches his phone back and reads it aloud before Louis can, eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Wait, what? You’ve met him before?”  
  
Louis takes it back, dazedly. “Technically. On uh -- my first date with Donald. I saw this guy that fit your description and I assumed it was Donald, so I started chatting him up. But it wasn’t, it was just a random fit bloke. Who I now know is Harry.”  
  
“So he recognized you?”  
  
“Well, not at first. Just said he thought I looked familiar. So of course I thought he meant he’d seen me in porn, and I started to freak out, but turns out three months ago we met each other at that restaurant.”  
  
“Oy, mate, that’s so romantic,” Zayn teases. “Sounds like  _destiny,_ babe.”  
  
Louis slaps him. “Shut up.” Then, quieter, “Should I do it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Wait -- really?” Louis splutters.   
  
“Really. You’re just looking for a rebound, mate, and rebounds are always trouble. I mean if you want to fuck him, go for it, by all means. But don’t go on a bloody date.”  
  
“But a free dinner--”  
  
“Oh, come on, Louis. Besides, who’s to say  _he’s_ paying?”  
  
“You have to meet this kid. He’s like Mr. Wonderful or something. He made me  _breakfast_ this morning. He went over to my neighbors --  _who loathe me --_ and flirted with that nasty old woman to get me bacon and eggs. Trust me, he’d pay.”  
  
Zayn shrugs. “If you say so, Lou. I just think you should stick with the fucking, honestly.”  
  
“Fine,” Louis says. He types his response into his phone and shows it to Zayn before sending it.   
  
He reads aloud: “‘ _How about we skip dinner and move straight to dessert--_ ’ Aw, c’mon, you big slut. Besides, he might literally think you mean dessert.”  
  
“Zayn, he’s not an idiot.”   
  
Louis sends the text anyways. He receives a response almost immediately.   
  
“ _Yeah, sure. Like ice cream or something?_ ” Louis reads the message aloud. “Oh my god. He actually is an idiot.”  
  
“So for that one you should respond -- ‘ _I was thinking more like the cream between my thighs,’_ ” Zayn says, wiggling his eyebrows obnoxiously. Louis hits him.   
  
“Is it too forward to ask him if I could just lick chocolate off his dick? Like, is it too soon in the relationship to bring in food play?”   
  
“I’d hold off on that, personally, but to each his own, sweet cheeks. And I mean ‘sweet cheeks’ literally, yeah?” Zayn repeats his obnoxious eyebrow wiggle.   
  
“You’re lucky you’re beautiful, Zayn. I really can’t stress that enough.”  
  
Zayn bares all his teeth in a rude smile.   
  
“C’mon, up. Time to go the studio,” Zayn orders, slapping Louis’s thigh. 

-

The studio is dead when they arrive -- just a few cameramen and custodians milling about. Louis spies his face blown up on a powerpoint slide when they walk past a marketing meeting on the way to Simon’s studio.   
  
Simon is already waiting for them, clipboard in hand. “Alright, Louis. You’ve got a solo today. We’d like it to be between 17 and 20 minutes. I’ve got three different toys, and you will use all of them. Don’t worry, it’s nothing you can’t handle.”  
  
“Where about?”   
  
“Follow me to Studio 1. Zayn, I need you in Studio 3. Josh and Andy haven’t arrived yet, but they should be there soon.”  
  
Zayn kisses Louis’s cheek before heading off to prepare for his threesome scene. Louis follows Simon to Studio 1, nodding to Sam upon arrival. There’s a white, nondescript bed laid out. Louis spots three dildos on a tray beside Sam’s camera station -- each progressively larger than the next.   
  
“Alright, Louis. On the bed. We’re going all natural, and thankfully you actually wore the right clothes this time, so just keep them on for the time being. You’ll strip for the camera -- not seductively though, just normally, like you’re having a good, hard wank in the privacy of your own bedroom.”  
  
Louis rolls his eyes. “Simon, please. I’ve done this a million times.”  
  
“Suit yourself, Tomlinson,” Simon shrugs. “El, get Louis some lube, please. I want him prepped before we start rolling. Louis can do it himself or Sam can do it.”  
  
“Myself, please,” Louis says quickly.  
  
“Fine. Then redress and get on the bed. When I call action, start slow -- grope yourself through your clothes. Shirt off first, then pants. Leave your underwear on for a bit, give us a little tease. Then take them off and start jerking yourself off properly. After a few minutes, start with the smallest toy. On your back, with your legs spread. Then move to your knees, arse to the camera obviously. Give us a show, but don’t be  _showy,_ you get me? And then finish it off with the big toy. When you do your come shot, I’d like you to be on your back. Shoot onto your stomach.”  
  
Louis nods through Simon’s spiel, accepting the lube when it’s given to him. He drops his pants and begins to open himself up -- no use being modest when he’s about to masturbate for an audience anyways.   
  
He thinks about Harry when he shucks off his clothes. He thinks about Harry’s mouth on his throat, the dip of his back, his arse as he fists his own cock. He throws his head back with a showy, throaty groan when the first toy slides in and thinks about Harry’s cock. He thinks about Harry’s eyes, pinning him to the bed, fierce and green as he comes all over his belly, making eye contact with the camera when he licks a drop off his finger.   
  
Simon gives him a hard, patronizing slap on the back when he finishes. Louis smiles briefly and leaves as quickly as he can, throwing his clothes back on and hurrying out of the studio. He checks his phone as soon as he’s outside. Zayn is still shooting, so he throws himself down onto a bench while he waits.   
  
He sees the shadow looming over him before he hears the voice. “Oh whoa, shit.”   
  
Louis spins around to find a tall, beautifully-sculpted man wearing a scarf and skinny jeans gaping at him.   
  
Louis smiles tentatively. “Uh, hi.”  
  
“You’re Louis Lucas,” the man says, still open-mouthed. “Fuck. I’m a huge fan.”  
  
Louis looks him up and down. At least this one is fit. “Oh, um...thanks, mate.”  
  
“Sorry,” the man says. “I’m Tom. Sorry to just -- bombard you like this, but once I saw it was you I just had to come over and say something. It’s...probably sort of weird though, to have someone approach you and know they’ve already seen you naked.”  
  
Louis raises his eyebrows.  
  
“Oh god,” Tom says, slapping a hand over his face. “Oh fuck fuck fuck. It sounds like I’m hitting on you, doesn’t it. Well I guess I am hitting on you. Er...this has become awkward.”  
  
Louis’s laugh is a strange hybrid of nervous and sympathetic. “It’s okay...I’m a bit used to it to be quite honest. But they’re not usually as fit as you.” He bites his lip. “Oops. And now it sounds like I’m hitting on you, doesn’t it?”   
  
Tom laughs brightly. He’s exceptionally well-groomed -- flawless, clear, tan skin, not a hair out of place, tastefully muscular, nice-smelling. “Could we meet for drinks some time?” He asks.   
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d love that,” Louis says. “Um...here’s my number, then.” He scribbles it down on a piece of paper.   
  
“Wow. Fuck. I have Louis Lucas’s number. Shit. Thanks so much, mate,” Tom smiles giddily before walking away. Louis smiles awkwardly in response. It fades as soon as he’s gone, and Donald’s e-mail flickers behind his eyelids. He lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes.   
  
Ten minutes later, Zayn swoops in to tackle him from behind, and Louis feels the air whoosh out of him with a grunt.  
  
“You bastard!” He cries, and Zayn cackles.   
  
“I’ve just had an incredible fuck,” Zayn says. “I’m telling you. This kid is no you, but he’s got an arse to die for.”  
  
“I’m telling Liam,” Louis sniffs, carefully re-arranging his hair back into place. Zayn heaves him up off the bench and throws an arm around his shoulder, dragging him to the street.   
  
“Whatever,” Zayn says carelessly, leaning against the pole at the crosswalk. “We all know Liam has no arse. He’s all flat back there. It’s quite adorable, and he’s still an amazing shag of course but that’s not what brings ‘em in.”  
  
Louis rolls his eyes while Zayn plows forward, dragging them across the street, caught up in his post-coital high. “It’s his eyes. Big brown puppy eyes. Makes you wanna fuck him up, you know? He just looks so goddamn innocent all the time. But what no one knows is in reality he’s--”  
  
“ _Please_ stop. Please. I already know too much. I slept on your couch for like three weeks straight...”  
  
“Oh, did you now? And whose fault was that, Lou? I seem to remember you whining that your apartment was a shithole and you wouldn’t bother taking care of it unless someone was taking care of  _you--_ ”  
  
“Don’t--”  
  
“I  _also_ seem to remember Liam and I throwing away an entire day to clean it up for you. I sacrificed a lot for you that day. I was still a bit innocent before that. Your apartment ruined me permanently, Louis -- it scarred me beyond repair--”  
  
“Would you fuck off,” Louis hisses, flicking Zayn’s ear. “Or I’ll tell everyone about the time I caught you masturbating in front of the mirror crying out your own stupid name.”  
  
Zayn flushes, pausing in front of his building. “What.”  
  
“ _Oh, Zayn,_ ” Louis cries out theatrically, drawing in a few strange looks from innocent passerby. “ _God, Zayn, you’re so hot, you’re an exquisite Arabian prince, uh, uh_ \--”  
  
Zayn slaps the side of Louis’s head, and he shuts up, cackling madly behind his hands.   
  
“I’ll tell everyone about  _your_ lingerie collection!” Zayn returns spitefully. “Mate, I’ve got enough fucking dirt on you to shut you up for multiple lifetimes. I cleaned up your fucking sex cave. I know all your weird degenerate fetishes--”  
  
“Weirder than coming on my own reflection?” Louis demands.  
  
“Please, I would never come on myself, I’m too beautiful to be marred by such  _filth_ \--” Zayn cuts himself off when his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket. “Ah. It’s Liam. My lovely Liam -- hello, babes,” Zayn says into the phone.  
  
Louis snatches it from him quickly. “Your boyfriend masturbates to his own reflection and he said you have no arse,” Louis shouts hurriedly into the mouthpiece, throwing the phone at Zayn before scampering off down the street.   
  
“I’ll get you for that you little twat!  _I HAVE PICTURES OF YOUR DILDO COLLECTION_!” Zayn roars after him. Louis winks cheekily over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner. Multiple people stop to stare at them blatantly. Zayn gives a particularly invasive man the finger before stomping into his building.   
  
\--  
  
Harry twirls his phone between his fingers aimlessly while he waits at the ice cream shop. He’s claimed a cozy little hightop in the corner by the window so he can watch out for Louis’s arrival. He’s squinting at a brown-haired man crossing the street wearing turquoise pants when his phone vibrates.  
  
He glances down at his messages. There’s a new one from Lucy Hall. Harry grits his teeth as he reads, “ _Hey, Styles. You ready for make-up sex yet?_ ”   
  
He tosses the phone on to the table angrily, running a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, the pain of her still raw and heavy in his chest. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to regulate his breathing when he feels a gentle hand touch his shoulder.  
  
Harry jumps, startled, to find Louis’s wide blue eyes staring back at him anxiously. “I -- I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”   
  
Harry takes a shaky breath. “Nah, mate, you’re fine.” He seems to gather his composure, his lips traveling to a slow smile. “Really fine,” he adds, eyes flicking up and down Louis’s body.   
  
Louis rolls his eyes but invites the gesture, winking at Harry over his shoulder before sauntering over to the ice cream counter. Harry comes up behind him, ducking his head down to prop his chin on Louis’s shoulder. His hands sneak down to cover Louis’s.  
  
“You’re quite the tactile man, aren’t you?”  
  
Harry laughs against his neck. “I guess. Don’t really think about it much, to be honest.”  
  
They stare at the selection until Harry whispers, “so what flavor do you like?”  
  
“Guess.”  
  
“Alright...not vanilla, that’s for sure.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis demands, trying to turn his head to face Harry but Harry presses against him tighter, hips settling into the small of Louis’s back.   
  
“Shhhh, it’s a compliment. You’re not vanilla, that’s all. Vanilla’s boring.”  
  
“I happen to love vanilla, actually.”  
  
“And I bet you look really good eating it,” Harry says lowly. “I think you’re more of a strawberry sort of boy, though.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, way to pick the gayest ice cream flavor...”  
  
“What’s gay about strawberry? What, just ‘cause it’s pink?” Harry asks. “Tsk, tsk, Louis. You didn’t strike me as the heteronormative type. Oh well...” Harry sighs, and Louis pinches his wrist.   
  
“Oh shut up, you twat. I want mint chocolate chip.”  
  
“Bossy,” Harry teases, lips brushing against Louis’s ear, who squirms away from him reluctantly. “Go on, tell the nice ice cream man.”  
  
Louis steps up to the counter, smiling at the apron-clad employee. “Hello, good sir. I would like mint chocolate chip, please, in a cone. Now my friend over there is having a bit of a problem. You see, none of these flavors are quite what he was looking for. He was desperately hoping this establishment carried semen-flavored ice cream, but based on your display, it appears as though he’s out of luck...”   
  
The employee’s eyes widen comically and Harry returns to his looming place behind Louis’s back to slap his hand over Louis’s mouth. “I’m very sorry, sir. Poor Louis here has changed his mind -- he doesn’t want mint chocolate chip at all. He would like a banana split -- however, is there any way you can substitute the banana with a penis? It doesn’t even have to be attached to a body. Seriously, it would absolutely make his night--” Louis cuts Harry off by biting his finger.   
  
“We’ll have a mint chocolate chip and a strawberry, please,” Louis interrupts. The employee gladly scurries off, red-faced and confused.   
  
“I’ll get you for that,” Harry whispers roughly, and Louis tries and fails not to lean back into his touch.   
  
“Oh yeah?” Louis says breathlessly. “And what exactly are you going to do?”  
  
Harry laughs lowly into the back of Louis’s head, disrupting the perfectly styled hair at the crown. “I have so many ideas for you.”  
  
Louis shivers, starting suddenly when the employee finally returns with their ice cream. Harry pays him, and Louis can feel his eyes boring into his arse when they walk back to their table.   
  
Harry’s eyes are relentless, watching Louis intensely as his tongue swirls around his ice cream.   
  
“Aw yeah, you lick that ice cream,” Harry leers. Louis drags his tongue around the scoop, making cheeky eye contact with Harry as he swipes along the cone.   
  
“What’s your last name?” Harry asks suddenly.   
  
“Tomlinson. Yours?”  
  
“Styles.”  
  
“Styles? Seriously?”  
  
“What’s wrong with Styles?”  
  
“I don’t know, it’s just... _Harry Styles._ You were born to be some sort of pop star with a name like that.”  
  
“I don’t want to be a pop star.”  
  
“Oh right.” Louis licks ice cream away from the corner of his mouth. “You’re a sensitive singer/songwriter, yeah?”  
  
Harry kicks his shin under the table, but he can’t help but grin.   
  
“You want play little coffee shops and wear your hipster little beanie and sing quirky duets with Zooey Deschanel,” Louis continues. “You want your song to be the backdrop of a Michael Cera movie where the indie weirdo wins the girl. You want your lyrics splashed all over artsy photoshop creations on tumblr. Admit it.”  
  
Harry shrugs. “I don’t really care to be honest. Though I’d rather play arenas than coffee shops, thanks. And if they want to stick my songs in movies, so be it. And if I get to fuck Zooey Deschanel, hey, no complaints here. But I want to get out of the rut I’m in now,” he says seriously, locking eyes with Louis. “I want to be signed. I want a major label and I want people to know my name.”  
  
“So fame’s the goal, then?”  
  
Harry holds Louis’s gaze, eyes crawling over his face studiously. He frowns. “No. I just want to write a song for everybody. I’m tired of singing to myself.”  
  
Louis coughs, alarmed by the sudden serious turn. “I’d like to hear you some time. Sing, I mean.”  
  
The dark cloud over Harry’s face dissipates immediately, revealing a huge, white smile. “I’ve got a gig this Saturday! At this club Bells...it’s close to that Italian restaurant by the bridge. You should come!”  
  
“Do I have to pay?”  
  
“Nah, I’ll get you in for free.” Harry’s smile is giddy and contagious, his eyes sparkling almost cartoonishly.   
  
They finish the rest of their ice cream and decide to go to Harry’s flat. It’s colder than Louis had expected, so Harry lends him his blazer, draping it over Louis’s shoulders, cooing in his ear about how much he loves the way Louis looks in his clothes. He shucks it off the moment they’re inside his door, ripping through the buttons of Louis’s pants and shoving his hand into his boxers.   
  
Harry squeezes tightly and Louis gasps, falling weakly against the wall. “Let’s try to make it to the bedroom first this time,” Louis says breathlessly.   
  
“How  _vanilla_ ,” Harry teases, lifting Louis against the wall and hitching his thighs around his waist.   
  
“There you go again!” Louis cries out. “Why do you always have to do that?”  
  
“Do what?” Harry asks, rocking his hips forward to brush their erections together.  
  
“Pick me up like I’m some kind of delicate flower-weeping romance novel heroine-sack of potatoes. You’re not the Incredible Hulk.”  
  
“So you’d like me to put you down?” Harry murmurs, teeth grazing along Louis’s jaw as he pulls Louis tighter against him.  
  
“Absolutely not,” Louis gasps, and Harry carries them to his bedroom, mouth still latched to Louis’s neck. He throws Louis onto the bed in a trembling heap and orders him to take off his clothes. Harry rips off his shirt, appreciating Louis’s blatant approval of his six-pack. He leaves his lower half clothed and looms over Louis, who is completely naked and unabashedly aroused, already fisting his own cock.  
  
“Don’t touch yourself.”  
  
Louis’s hand falls away from his cock with a low whine, and Harry orders him to turn over. He squirms obediently onto his belly, and hears Harry lower himself to his knees beside the bed. Harry pulls his thighs apart, kneading the skin there, watching little white imprints appear under his fingertips. Louis writhes impatiently, rolling his hips into the mattress, and Harry squeezes hard, reprimanding.   
  
“Fucking eat me out already, you horrible tease,” Louis demands. Harry bites into the flesh where his thigh meets the curve of his arse, and Louis whimpers, burying his face in his arms. Harry’s mouth moves closer, running a dry finger over his arsehole. He pokes his tongue out, licking tentatively until he hears Louis’s moan of approval. He pushes his tongue in deeper, holding himself there for a second, unmoving, until Louis begs him to continue.  
  
He fucks him with his tongue slowly, tortuously, until Louis is wet enough to slide a finger in with ease. He pulls him open with two fingers and pushes his tongue inside until Louis is wriggling and begging and nearly sobbing with need, crying out into his knuckles with a bitten-off  _please_ and  _oh god_ and  _more, harry, please please please._  
  
He’s wet enough for three fingers and Harry takes his time, fingers scissoring alongside his tongue. Louis is pushing his hips high off the bed, making his back arch in an obscene curve, and Harry has to fight not to pull out and just fuck him senseless already. When he has Louis just at the cusp of orgasm, he pulls out.   
  
Harry makes like he’s going to start fucking him properly, but Louis catches him by the wrist before he can and shoves him onto the bed.   
  
“Fuck that,” he pants. “I’m riding you.” He digs in Harry’s nightstand for the proper supplies, rolling on the condom and lubing Harry up hurriedly before straddling his lap.  
  
“Shit, you’re bigger than I remember,” Louis gasps, eyes screwed shut as he slowly sinks down on Harry’s cock.   
  
“Are you okay--?”  
  
Louis dives down to stick his tongue in Harry’s mouth, promptly shutting him up. He can taste traces of himself as well as something uniquely  _Harry,_ and he kisses him slowly until he’s fully seated on Harry’s cock.   
  
He lifts himself up and then back down again, much faster this time, relishing in the sharp-sweet pain that slowly gives way to a purely pleasurable ache as soon as Harry’s deep enough to brush against his prostate. He repeats this action, taking full control of the rhythm as he plants his hands on Harry’s chest, fucking himself relentlessly on Harry’s cock until it  _hurts_ and there’s sweat beading at his temples and Harry’s staring up at him like he’s some sort of blessed orgasm-giving angel.   
  
Louis throws his head back and Harry heaves himself up onto his elbows, grabbing Louis by the back of the neck and kissing him deeply, rutting his hips into Louis’s mercilessly until Louis has to break away, whimpering against the corner of Harry’s mouth, breath hot on his cheek. Harry slams into his prostate and curls his thumb over the head of Louis’s cock and he’s gone, spurting messily between their bellies and grabbing two handfuls of Harry’s hair, mouth falling wet and open against Harry’s jaw.   
  
Harry’s orgasm follows a few seconds later, hips stuttering as he empties his release, falling back against the bed as Louis collapses on top of him. He’s still inside him. They remain like that for a few minutes, pressing poorly-aimed kisses into the corners of each other’s mouths, struggling to regain their breath.   
  
“I already like you too much,” Louis says, whispery and hidden against Harry’s throat.   
  
“What?”   
  
Louis freezes, pressing his face further into Harry’s neck. “Nothing,” he mumbles.  
  
“Louis, what is it?” Harry creates a distance between them, grabbing Louis’s face until he’s forced to make eye contact. His eyes are soft, and he runs his thumb along Louis’s cheekbone like he’s something precious, and it makes Louis’s lungs burn. Harry’s so beautiful. He should look fucked-up with his flushed cheeks and sweat-matted hair and his swollen mouth but he looks _beautiful._ He’s so many colors -- rich green and bruise-purple and scarlet-red -- with those exquisite lips and soft curls and sweeping eyelashes. Louis has to look away -- Harry’s something too perfect, too beautiful, too  _good,_ too good for Louis.   
  
Louis smiles, going for casual and probably landing somewhere near crazy, or pathetic, or wrecked.  
  
 _He looks so much like Donald,_ his mind says, and his smile fades instantly. Harry’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and Louis wriggles himself out of his arms.   
  
“It’s nothing, mate, really. If you don’t have objections, I’m gonna go ahead and get out of here. Wouldn’t want you to have to face my awful morning breath,” he says, too-cheerful, with a smile that feels broken and lopsided on his face. He pulls on his clothes and stands awkwardly at the foot of Harry’s bed.   
  
Harry doesn’t even bother to smile. “Look, Louis. You can spend the night. Really, I don’t mind. I was gonna make you breakfast in the morning...”  
  
“Oh, you really don’t have to do that, honest. But thanks for the offer. You’re really too kind. Anyways, I’ll get out of your hair.”  
  
Harry follows him to the door. “Wait, Louis.” Louis waits, hand on the doorknob, avoiding Harry’s eyes lest his body betrays him and leaps back into Harry’s bed without his permission. “Can I -- can I see you again?”  
  
Louis stares at his hand on the door knob, and thinks about how small his hand is, and how small Harry’s voice sounds, and how small  _he_ probably looked when he was in the same position, asking the same question just days ago.  
  
“Yeah. Of course,” he says, hating how his voice goes high and needy. He closes his eyes briefly, waiting for permission to leave.  
  
“I really like you, Louis,” Harry says. It sounds so sincere and unabashed and Louis wishes he could say things like that without feeling sick and afraid.   
  
“I really like you too,” he says, finally making eye contact. Harry’s standing in the door frame of his kitchen, completely stark-naked, and that’s when Louis finally cracks a sincere smile. His cock is flaccid and smeared with come, and he’s still got Louis’s spunk streaked across his stomach.   
  
“You look a mess,” Louis comments, stupid grin at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“You look really beautiful,” Harry returns, dark-eyed and serious. Louis blushes against his will, head ducking down to stare at his shoes.  
  
 _You look sexy -- gorgeous -- perfect -- godlike -- You’re an adonis -- a prince -- a fucking superhero._ “You’re...never mind,” Louis says instead, opting for the weak way out. He feels the shame and self-loathing slide into his belly, and the intensity of Harry’s gaze searing itself into his cheek.  
  
“I’ll see you around?” Harry asks. Louis nods, plastering a bright smile on his face before slipping out the door, releasing a huge, heaving exhale as soon as he reaches the lift. 


	4. The Secret

Harry doesn’t respond to Lucy Hall.  
  
She sends him another text on Friday:  _I miss you_. It’s all bullshit, but Harry cries anyways, curled up on his couch with a 40 oz. and  _Love Actually._ He thinks about texting Louis -- gorgeous, perfect, sweet little Louis -- but rejection is fresh, still-hot in his belly, and he can’t bear the thought of wanting someone more than they want him.   
  
He texts Louis anyways:  _Hey, you doing anything tonight?_  
  
Louis’s response is almost immediate.  _Sorry i’ve had a long day at work and i’m really exhausted but i’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? 8:30 at bells?_  
  
Right. His gig. Harry can’t help the giddy smile that spreads across his face as he replies,  _yeah sounds good. getting a bit nervous though knowing you’ll be in the audience._  
  
It’s too-honest, too-sincere, too-open, but Harry doesn’t know any other way to be than raw and naked and bared-open.   
  
Louis never responds, and Harry doesn’t know what that means.  
  
He doesn’t wake up until 3 on Saturday, groggy and uncomfortably hard with the stale taste of beer in his mouth. He rubs one out in the shower, and makes himself a giant fry-up with all the fixings. He calls Niall and Nick at 5 to practice before the show.   
  
They roll into Bells at 7:30, and the first thing Harry sees is the back of Lucy Hall’s shiny, brown head. She’s wearing Harry’s favorite skirt -- black, skin-tight, cut just above her knees, clinging to the curves of her arse perfectly.   
  
Harry’s mouth tightens into a thin line, and he tugs Nick aside by the elbow to hiss in his ear,  _“Lucy Hall._ ” He points directly her, all subtlety abandoned, and Nick’s eyes widen and he pushes Harry back into the tiny dressing room behind the bar.  
  
“Harry. It’s okay. Breathe, mate.”  
  
“I’m fucking breathing, alright, we’re not in one of your bloody  _yoga classes_ \--”  
  
 _“Harry._ Please. Tonight’s an important gig. I think a guy from Atlantic might be coming--”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Harry springs out of his chair and storms towards Nick, wild-eyed and furious.  
  
Nick hushes him, pushing on his shoulders until Harry’s forced to sit. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to freak out. I also didn’t want you to attempt to seduce anyone--”  
  
“ _Don’t mock me--”_ Harry hisses, red-cheeked and dark-eyed, knuckles white on his arm rest.  
  
“I’m not. I’m being honest with you, because  _you need this._ This is a fantastic opportunity, okay, and we can’t screw up -- so fuck Lucy, fuck Warner Brothers, fuck the charming sex kitten routine, just for tonight--”  
  
“You just called me a sex kitten.”  
  
“Harry--”  
  
“No. You’re not wriggling out of this one, Grimmy. You called me a sex kitten and I’m never going to let you forget it. Your headstone’s going to read ‘Father, Husband, Friend, Manager to Sex-Kitten Harry Styles.’”  
  
“I’ll get cremated.”  
  
“And then I’ll put your ashes in my sex kitten litter box,” Harry says with a cheeky smile, disappearing back to the main room of the club.  
  
“What the fuck does that even  _mean,_ Styles?!” Nick demands, but Harry barely hears him, dodging between bodies to catch up with Niall.  
  
“Quick, I need a drink before I go onstage,” he whispers.   
  
“Did Nick tell you about--”  
  
“Atlantic? Yes, the prat -- how dare he fucking wait to tell me until the gig starts, how  _dare he--_ ” Harry downs the shot Niall hands him with a painful wince, slamming the glass onto the counter.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ, what is that? Niall, did you fucking piss in that?”  
  
“It’s a Jagerbomb.”  
  
“Shit, that’s disgusting,” Harry says, shaking his curls. “Give me another.”  
  
Niall obeys with a sigh, and Harry swallows it down quickly, wiping his mouth. “Alright.” He jumps up and down a bit. “I feel good. I can do this.”  
  
“Mate, behind you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Harry feels a light tap on his shoulder, and a wave of sweet perfume. “Is your phone broken, love?”   
  
His whole body freezes into a tense line. He doesn’t turn around. Lucy’s mouth brushes against his ear, and he can feel her breasts pressing into his back. “It’s harder to ignore someone in person, isn’t it, Harry?”  
  
He spins around. She’s staring at him with open lust, her eyes flicking up and down his body appreciatively. Harry feels a crackling in his muscles, a deep possessive rage that he doesn’t know what to do with. He channels it into a wide, fake smile, stepping into her personal space.  
  
“No one invited you,” he says lowly, cheeks aching from his stiff, angry smile.   
  
“I heard there was some potential talent here tonight. It’s my job to investigate potential talent.”  
  
“ _Well obviously you’re not very good at your job,_ ” Harry hisses.   
  
“Why? I investigated  _you._ ”  
  
“And then dropped me. I would’ve made you a fortune,” Harry whispers darkly. Their noses nearly touch.  
  
“Arrogant little cunt, aren’t you?”  
  
“Well  _someone_ has to believe in me, yeah?” Harry says, his voice rising well above a whisper at this point as he struggles to contain his rage. “Seems I’m the only one up for the job.”  
  
“Aw, poor little Harry. What do you do with all that privilege? You know I’d just  _love_ to kiss your wounds better, darling, if you’d let me.”  
  
Harry stares her down, concentrating on tensing every muscle in his face so it doesn’t crumple to pieces.   
  
“You make me sick,” he says honestly, hoping she misses the shake in his voice. He walks away before he comes ill, seeking out Niall so he can collapse on him.   
  
He stumbles into Louis instead.   
  
“Harry? Are you alright--” Louis starts, but Harry cuts him off, dragging him by the arm and into the bathroom roughly, bullying him into a stall and kicking the door closed. Before Louis has time to protest, Harry gathers his face in his hands and kisses him deeply, hard and hot and desperate. Louis buries his fingers in Harry’s hair, pulling them together until they’re completely entangled, legs and arms and mouths lost in each other until Louis finally breaks away to catch his breath, panting heavily.  
  
“Is that -- is this a pre-show thing? Because I could roll with that. I’ve always wanted to be fucked in a club bathroom--”  
  
“Really? Oh god don’t say that. Now I’m going to have to go onstage with a boner,” Harry moans.  
  
“I could get you off really quick?” Louis says earnestly, and Harry feels a sudden rush of overwhelming fondness, and he kisses Louis’s cheek sweetly.  
  
“No, it’s alright. I’ll just think about my gran or something,” Harry says, kicking the stall open and tangling his fingers in Louis’s, leading them back to the bar. Louis stumbles behind him, trying to keep up with Harry’s nervous energy, and he strokes his thumb over Harry’s white, wound-up knuckles, letting him know he’s there.   
  
Harry suddenly pulls him into a corner, looming over Louis with his arms bracketed him against the wall, looking lost and dark-eyed. Louis pushes himself onto his tip-toes and kisses Harry’s cheek, whispers  _you’ll be fine, Harry, you’ll be so good, like absolutely brilliant_ and Harry smiles gratefully, falling against Louis and letting himself be kissed and petted and taken care of.   
  
“Remind me later,” Harry says. “To tell you about someone. It’s not a good story -- quite sad for me really -- but I want to tell you, if that’s okay?”  
  
“Yeah, Harry, of course. I can come home with you after this?” Louis asks, like he’s still expecting to be turned away or pushed to the side and Harry cups his face in his hands like Louis’s something precious and kisses his lips and says  _of course._  
  
“And now I’d like to introduce someone I’m sure many of you are quite familiar with by now. He’s a favorite at this club -- come on, give it up for  _Harry Styles!_ ” The MC announces, and Harry’s eyes become wide and frantic.   
  
“Harry, love, go on, you’re going to be amazing,” Louis encourages, giving him one last kiss on the cheek, which Harry accepts dazedly as he begins to step away.  
  
“But there’s a producer in the crowd--”  
  
“He’ll love you, babe -- now go on, hurry, Harry!”  
  
And it’s as if someone’s flipped a switch -- Harry pulls himself together within seconds, plastering on a charming smile and his trademark, lazy grace, climbing onto the stage while waving at the crowd. Niall’s already there, guitar slung in his lap. Harry winks at him as he takes the mic.  
  
“Hey, everybody. I’m Harry Styles. Thanks so much for coming out tonight. I had a new song I was going to play for you guys tonight -- something sort of different, a love song, but my feelings have changed a bit so I’m playing an old one, if that’s alright? Maybe some of you will even recognize it.”  
  
He makes eye contact with Nick as he begins to play, eyes following Nick’s head twitch to the man standing next to him. He’s wearing a suit and a serious expression, and Harry assumes this is the Atlantic producer. He sings directly to him, earnestly and seriously, smiling at all the right times and closing his eyes for dramatic effect. He even catches the producer bobbing his head along a few times.   
  
They plough their way through the songs from their demo, plus a few new songs that Niall’s helped him with, and finally the David Bowie cover. The crowd is wild-eyed and slick with sweat by the time Harry’s finished with them. He flicks the sweat out of his own eyes as they thunder cheers and applause and wolf-whistles as he holds his last note of the set. His eyes twinkle proudly as he searches the audience for Louis, who is standing on top of the bar and cheering obnoxiously despite the bartender’s attempts to swat at his ankles. Harry makes his way over before the bartender can succeed, offering Louis his hand like some sort of Disney prince and helping him climb down.   
  
“You’re ridiculous,” Harry whispers, sweeping Louis into his arms and kissing his cheek. Louis grabs him by the chin and shoves his tongue into his mouth, pinning Harry against the bar as he kisses him roughly, running his fingers through Harry’s sweaty hair.   
  
“You were so brilliant, Harry,” Louis whispers into the corner of his mouth. “Like, so, so brilliant.” He discreetly moves Harry’s hand so it’s cupped over Louis’s bulge. “Apparently I’m very attracted to talent.”  
  
Harry gasps into Louis’s mouth, squeezing roughly. Louis laughs against his mouth, thumb sweeping over Harry’s bottom lip, eyes fond.  
  
“Ahem,” someone says behind them. Louis springs away immediately, leaving a flushed Harry to face Nick and the Atlantic producer. He tries to hide his semi as casually as he can. If he’s failing, the producer has an extraordinary poker face.  
  
“Harry,” Nick says cautiously, eyeing Louis briefly before re-focusing his attention. “I’ve brought someone I’d like you to meet. This is Andre Artaud. He works for Atlantic.”  
  
Harry sticks out his hand, well aware of Louis’s presence beside him and the fact that his hand was just pressed against Louis’s crotch. “Hello, Mr. Artaud. Nice to meet you. Did you um...did you like the show?”   
  
Harry eyes Nick making his way over to Louis to whisper something in his ear. Louis nods and disappears into the crowd behind the bar. Harry tries his best to pay attention to Mr. Artaud.   
  
“I really enjoyed it, Mr. Styles. You’ve got an interesting sound. Soulful. And you write your own songs?”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Something about Mr. Artaud makes Harry want to call him sir. He has a smooth, deep voice and dark skin and broad, powerful shoulders that shift under the clean lines of his expensive suit. “Did my manager give you a copy of my demo?”  
  
“Yes. I’ll give it a listen as soon as I can and get back to you. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know when I’d like you to stop by the studio.”  
  
“Stop by? For what?”  
  
Mr. Artaud raises his eyebrows. “I want to see what you can do with professional-grade equipment. You have raw, natural talent, Mr. Styles. But sometimes live performers don’t translate well to studio. I’ve got to make sure you can sell records, not stadiums.”  
  
“Right. Of course.”  
  
“Here’s my card. But please, if you would -- wait for me to call you first.”  
  
Harry nods dazedly, shaking Mr. Artaud’s powerful hand one last time before watching him exit the bar. He raggedly runs a hand over his face, heaving a giant exhale.   
  
“Congratulations, Harry,” Nick says, sidling up beside him. “You managed not to hit on him. Seriously, I’m impressed.”  
  
Harry slaps Nick’s cheek. “Apparently I can reel back the sex kitten act when I need to.”  
  
Nick at least has the grace to blush. “So are you going to tell me about your little boyfriend over there or what?” Nick asks after an awkward silence, pointing to the bar. Harry spots Louis talking animatedly to the bartender, who apparently has forgiven him for his previous misbehavior. A little seed of jealously curls in his belly when Louis leans over flirtatiously, nodding to a bottle of something under the bar. The bartender reaches down to retrieve it and pours Louis a glass, winking.   
  
“He’s not my boyfriend. I’ve only known him for like a week or two, really,” Harry says. “Besides, I don’t  _do_ boyfriends, remember?”  
  
“Right -- you don’t want to waste your youth, plus you’ve got that sex kitten thing, I got it. He’s cute, though.”  
  
“Back off, Grimshaw,” Harry says bitingly, staring at the curve of Louis’s bum as he leans over the bar.   
  
“Kitty’s got claws.”  
  
Harry shoots him a withering glare. Nick finally concedes. “Oh, Harry, please. You know I don’t go for the twinky types, come on. I’m just saying, he’s cute and he clearly adores you a lot. Don’t be an asshole.”  
  
“When have I ever been an asshole?” Harry demands.  
  
“Alright, fine -- just, let him down easy, when you get bored of him, yeah?”  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ, Grimmy! Is that what you think I do?” Harry asks furiously. Nick’s face falls, realizing how serious Harry is.   
  
“No, no, Harry, please -- I just mean --” Nick sighs. “Ugh, how do I say this without insulting you even more than I already clearly have. I think this kid thinks this is going somewhere, you know, romantic, so just--”  
  
“That’s ridiculous,” Harry mumbles. “ _Louis_ is a friend. We’re friends. Who have sex. He’s not my fucking boyfriend, and he’s well aware -- look, why do I even have to explain myself to you. He’s on the same page, alright? They’ve all been. Except for Lucy fucking Hall, apparently--”  
  
“Harry, calm down, I don’t mean it, alright? I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. Besides, we’ve got big news to focus on, yeah? Like the fact that you’re  _going to Atlantic Studios tomorrow._ I mean, Harry, fuck, that’s  _huge._ And I was watching Andre during your set -- he was really into it. I mean, as into it as guys like that could be, you get me?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry breathes, calming himself down. “Yeah, this is big. Should I be nervous?”  
  
“No, no, no -- you’re just going to go in and sing for them in a studio, that’s all. Nothing crazy. Just fancy equipment and a bunch of strangers staring at you, but you can handle that, Styles. I might not get too drunk tonight, though.”  
  
“Nick, please, do you really think I’m that irresponsible?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Harry opens his mouth to argue, until Louis comes bounding over to him bearing two glasses full of some turquoise liquid. “Harry, look how pretty these are! And they taste really good, you can barely taste the alcohol! Go on, try it!” Louis says excitedly, shoving the glass into Harry’s hands, and Harry feels his anger dissipate immediately at the sight of Louis’s big, blue eyes shining in his earnest little face.   
  
Harry takes a sip, smiling at the sweet taste. “What is that?”  
  
“Blue raspberry vodka and lemonade. Isn’t it yummy?”  
  
Harry nods, noticing the way Nick is eyeing the two of them. “Hey, Lou, did I ever introduce you to Nick?”  
  
“No, but he introduced himself. We’re the best of pals now. We’ve got a radio show and a youtube channel already. We do each other’s hair and give friendship advice.”  
  
Nick simply nods, ruffling Louis’s hair fondly.  
  
“Hey, bud, you’re new so I’ll let you off the hook, but no one touches the hair. Harry, on the other hand, loves it. He’s quite generous with his curls.”  
  
Harry shakes his head when Nick tries to touch it. “Lou only.”  
  
“What?” Nick protests. “Why?”  
  
“Let’s count down the reasons shall we? Just five seconds ago you called me irresponsible. Before that you accused me of being a womanizing dick and also you insinuated that I’m a slut, so. None for you, Glen Coco.”  
  
“Go ahead and tack on ‘ridiculous 13-year old girl” to that list of insults, please, Harold.”  
  
“Wait, can we backtrack to womanizing dick? Harry, I’m learning so much about you,” Louis cuts in.   
  
“Um, no, we can’t, because I’m not actually a womanizing dick. Nicholas here just doesn’t understand adult relationships.”  
  
“Please,  _Harold,_ you’re 18 years old.”  
  
Louis gasps. “Whoa whoa whoa, hold the phone. Harry, you’re 18?”  
  
“Um, yes. How old are you?”  
  
“I’m 21.”  
  
They stare at each other intensely for a moment.  
  
“Wow, you guys really know nothing about each other, do you?” Nick says bluntly.  
  
“Didn’t really have much room to talk when I was fucking him into the mattress,” Harry says calmly, still watching Louis, who’s eyes widen dramatically.  
  
“Harry!” he exclaims, looking like he wants to both punch Harry and jump his bones.  
  
“And that’s my cue to leave, yes? Yes,” Nick says, mostly to himself, as Harry and Louis continue to stare at each other as if in they’re in the middle of some sort of mating ritual. He mutters something about finding Niall and leaves them alone.   
  
Harry slowly backs Louis into the corner of the bar. “Finish the rest of that quickly, babe,” Harry says lowly, nodding to Louis’s drink. He’s already downed his.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I need to get you home,” Harry says simply, leaning into Louis’s ear. “What I’m about to do to you isn’t allowed in public,” he whispers hotly, toying restlessly with the hairs falling around his ear. Louis shivers and obeys without protest, overly conscious of Harry’s dark gaze on his throat as he struggles to gulp down the rest of his drink.  
  
“Come on,” Harry says before Louis’s even had a chance to slam his glass down.   
  
“Harry, I didn’t pay my tab--” Louis protests.  
  
“I’m there all the time, I’ll pick it up later. Besides, the way you were flirting with him...I doubt the bartender’s really going to be that upset.”  
  
“I wasn’t  _flirting_!”   
  
Harry waves down a cab, pushing Louis into it as soon as the opportunity presents itself. He climbs in after and shoves Louis so he’s all the way against the door. “Oh, yes you were. Was almost afraid you were going to leave with someone else tonight.”  
  
He gives the cabbie his address while Louis splutters beneath him. “I didn’t take you for the jealous type, love,” Louis says, mouth close. Harry moves so he’s half in Louis’s lap, bearing down on him.   
  
“Well as we’ve learnt tonight, we really don’t know much about each other at all. I know your last name’s  _Tomlinson,_ ” Harry says lowly, eyes fixed darkly on Louis’s. “I know you’re 21. I know you’re an actor. And I know you’re absolutely  _incredible_ in bed. ”  
  
Louis shivers under his hands. “I know you’re 18,” he returns. “I know you’re a  _singer/songwriter_ but you can’t say it yourself because you think it makes you sound like a twat. I know your voice really fucking turns me on,” Louis adds, maneuvering Harry’s hand so it’s crushed between his legs. “And I know you’re apparently the jealous type. And it’s kind of hot.”  
  
Harry shoves his tongue in Louis’s mouth roughly, chasing the taste of blue raspberry and lemonade, kissing him deeply. The cab driver coughs awkwardly when they pull into Harry’s flat. 

-

Harry throws a handful of bills at the driver and drags Louis out of the car by the bicep, shoving Louis out into the rain. He can’t remember when it started raining. Louis’s sort of taken over all of his senses.  
  
“Can I be rough with you?” Harry asks, throat raw, combing through Louis’s wet hair as they travel up the lift, watching rain speckle the window like sequins. The sun has almost completely disappeared, leaving a spray of fuchsia and navy, half-smothered by dark rain clouds. His touch on Louis’s forehead is gentle and sweet, but his voice is rough and torn-up, desperate.   
  
Louis just runs his finger down the bridge of Harry’s nose, a little bit in awe and a little bit afraid because Harry’s  _asking,_ and that’s beautiful to him.  
  
“Louis,  _please._ Please. You make me so--”He feels young and out of control, pent-up with leftover electricity, buzzing from the show, from seeing Lucy, from being with Louis, from being 18-years old with nothing to reign him down. And his attraction to Louis isn’t quite like anything he’s ever experienced before; he doesn’t just want to fuck him, he wants to  _have_ him. He feels possessive and restless and needy and something else, something too positive and delirious to be  _anger,_ but it itches like anger, it’s hot like anger, and he desperately needs to fuck it away.  
  
Louis looks like Harry feels. And it only makes it worse.   
  
Harry pushes Louis out of the lift and into the dark hallway. It’s empty and cold and their hands are everywhere, wrestling each other against the door. Harry stuffs the key inside and throws the door open, picking Louis almost off his feet as he slams him against the door. “Can I, Lou?” He needs his permission.   
  
Louis laughs -- that nervous laugh, the one that rises out of habit -- but his eyes are still searching Harry’s intently. “Yeah, Harry,” he says softly, voice rough like he tried to make a joke of it but couldn’t quite figure out how.  
  
Harry catches something in Louis’s eyes -- something wrecked and dark and vulnerable  -- but it’s only a flash before Louis is yanking his head down to stab his tongue into Harry’s mouth, deep and wet and deliberate, hands sinking roughly into Harry’s curls. Harry feels almost impossibly aroused, skin too hot and too tight for his bones, and he begins stripping them both roughly, fingers flying at the tricky buttons of Louis’s shirt and the fly of his pants, throwing them both to the floor. Louis curls his arms around Harry’s neck desperately, pulling himself up onto his tip-toes as high as he can until Harry finally gets enough sense to just pick him up, hitching Louis’s thighs around his waist when his head falls back against the wall to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling quickly. Harry plants his mouth against Louis’s bared throat, sucking hard until a little red mark blooms to the surface, and Louis whimpers beneath him, flushed and shaky and unstable.   
  
Harry carries him to his room, depositing him on the bed and dropping his jeans. He’s naked underneath, and already almost completely hard. Louis admires him openly, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Harry crawls on top of him, spreading Louis’s legs to lie between them, and attaches his mouth to Louis’s neck again, biting into the flesh. He soothes over it with his tongue and moves up under his jaw, then below his ear, then down to his collarbone and his shoulder, to his nipple and the spaces between his ribs and over his tummy, to his hipbones, to his cock. He doesn’t touch his cock, however, just bites at the inside of his thigh and crawls back up his body, hitching Louis’s thighs around his waist before lifting him off the bed completely. Louis allows himself to become docile, letting Harry manhandle him against the wall.   
  
There’s fingers at his mouth and a low voice asking him to  _suck,_ and Louis does, dazedly, as Harry’s eyes bore into his, deep and dark and almost overwhelming in their intensity. One, two, three, he’s three fingers in and Louis’ biting into his shoulder, hiding his pink cheeks in Harry’s chest as his cock rubs against his belly, red and leaking and painful-looking. Harry removes his fingers, panting against the top of Louis’s head feverishly as he enters him slowly, weight shifting as he pushes Louis higher up the wall.  
  
“Louis, hold on,” he whispers, and Louis tightens his arms around Harry’s neck while he’s picked up and fucked into, over and over and over and he’s surprised Harry’s arms don’t collapse because he’s basically dead weight at this point, useless and over-sensitized and utterly, utterly  _ruined,_ whining high and raspy. He buries his head in Harry’s neck, watches the straining muscles of Harry’s arm twist and turn red and flex with exertion. Louis’s legs shake and his body is confronted with so much pleasure that it  _hurts,_ and he comes with a rough, ragged scream, cock spurting against Harry’s belly without even being touched.  
  
Harry pulls out and sets him shakily on his feet, kissing him roughly before turning him around to face the wall, holding tightly onto Louis’s hips so he won’t crumple into a puddle at Harry’s feet. He pushes inside again, one hand on Louis’s hips and the other on his throat, twisting Louis back so he can tangle their tongues together, graceless and wet and  _dirty._ Harry’s hips snap relentlessly into Louis, hard and merciless and Louis’s so, so sensitized that he almost falls down the wall, and Harry has to push him against it completely, covering him entirely with his body until he comes, finally allowing Louis to slump down to his knees in a wrecked, fucked-out puddle.   
  
Harry takes him under the arms and carries him back to his bed, lays him down and cleans him up, fingers lingering at Louis’s bruised hips and his red throat and his fucked-up hair. He kisses his eyelids and his nose and his lips until Louis falls asleep with Harry’s head on his shoulder and Harry’s voice in his ear, low and soothing and full of sweet things.  
  
\--  
  
“Yesterday,” Louis says, eyeing Harry over the rim of his tea cup, squinting through the bright morning sunlight. “Yesterday you said you wanted to tell me about someone.”  
  
They’re in the bath. A thick wash of gold rinses them with color, reflecting off the water and the mountain of bubbles that Louis insisted on. Harry’s knee bumps against his as they stare at each other.  
  
Harry looks away, setting his own cup on the side of the bath with a sigh. “Well maybe...maybe we should start with happy stories. I mean, we still don’t even know that much about each other.”  
  
Louis rolls his eyes. “Fine. What’s your favorite color?”  
  
“Louis.”   
  
“What? It’s an important question. Colors say a lot about a person. Are you a passionate red, Harold? A cool blue? A down-to-earth green? Happy yellow? Flamboyant pink? Come on, Harry. This is crucial information.”  
  
Harry narrows his eyes. He doesn’t exactly appreciate Louis mocking him.  
  
“You don’t have to be a twat about it,” Harry mumbles, pulling his knee away from Louis’s. “I just thought we could -- nevermind.”   
  
A shadow falls across Louis’s face, and he looks down at the water, feeling Harry’s dark stare burning into his forehead.  
  
And then Louis turns mischievous, foot darting forward under the water to brush against Harry’s cock, laughing. Harry reaches down and grabs it, pushing his foot back towards Louis. “No. You’re not touching my dick and you’re not touching your own, either,” Harry says seriously when he spots Louis trying to touch his cock. “Go on, drink your tea. I want us to do something else besides fucking for once.”  
  
Louis scoffs. “Like what?”  
  
“I dunno,” Harry mumbles. He might be blushing. He’s not good at this. “Talk.”  
  
“I don’t like talking.”  
  
“Louis, what are you talking about, you do nothing  _but_ talk,” Harry protests. “The only time you properly shut up is when I’m fucking you quiet--”  
  
“So let’s do that again, yeah?” Louis says determinedly, diving forward in the bath to straddle Harry’s lap. He feels silky and slick under the hot water, and it takes every ounce of Harry’s will power to push him off, water splashing over the edge of the tub.   
  
“Now you stay in your corner and I’ll stay in mine. We’re  _not_ going to touch each other,” Harry says sternly. Louis thinks he looks like an affronted puppy.  
  
“But  _why?_ ” Louis whines. “Harry, why the fuck are we even doing this? We’re here to fuck each other, aren’t we? Who gives a damn what my favorite color is or if I prefer boxers or briefs, alright?”  
  
“ _I_ give a damn! I’m trying to get to know you!”  
  
“Right, you said that already. But  _why?_ Hmm? You don’t need to know anything about me except what I like to do in bed, and you know those things, so we’re fine, we don’t have to do all this--” Louis says, waving his arms theatrically around Harry’s bath.   
  
“I don’t know everything you like in bed.”  
  
“You know a lot of it,” Louis says shortly.  
  
“Well tell me the rest. Or better -- tell me what you  _haven’t_ done that you’ve always wanted to try,” Harry pushes eagerly.  
  
“Love, I’ve done everything,” Louis says dismissively.  
  
“Oh, come on. There has to be  _something_ \--”  
  
“Nope. I’ve done it all. Now can we quit your little game, please?” His eyes are cruel. Harry’s chest hurts.  
  
“Fine,” Harry growls exasperatedly, climbing out of the tub and yanking his towel off the rack, leaving Louis sitting alone. Louis heaves a giant sigh, slipping under the water with a stream of bubbles, relishing its warmth. He allows a moment to feel sorry for himself before finally climbing out of the tub after Harry. He takes a towel off the rack and ties it around his waist.   
  
He finds Harry in the kitchen, strands of wet hair clinging to his forehead, dressed only in his boxers. He looks tan and fit and well-muscled and Louis wants nothing more than to climb into his lap and fuck him senseless, but it seems Harry has other plans. He looks up to see Louis standing at the end of his table.   
  
He stares at him, going for hard and expressionless but he lands closer to sad and pitiful. “You’re dripping all over my kitchen.”  
  
“Harry you’re being a miserable little cunt,” Louis says, his voice echoing wretchedly throughout Harry’s kitchen.   
  
“No you are,” Harry returns childishly, and with far less heat. Louis inhales with determination, moving across the room to kneel by Harry’s chair, resting his chin on Harry’s knee. He feels like a puppy, and he stares up at Harry like one.  
  
“Why don’t you want to fuck me?” Louis says, trying not to pout and failing miserably.   
  
“I do want to fuck you. I always want to fuck you. But that doesn’t have to--” Harry struggles to find the right words, staring down at Louis helplessly. “That doesn’t have to be all this is. I  _like_ you, Louis.”  
  
“Oh would you please shut up, honestly-"  
  
“I don’t want to shut up,” Harry says, his voice becoming stronger. “I  _like_ you. I don’t just think you’re hot -- and I do, I really fucking do -- but I also like  _you._ I think you’re funny and sweet and interesting and  _frustrating_ and I want to know more about you because you’re also weird as hell and -- and I want to figure you out.”  
  
“Why are you saying all this?” Louis asks brokenly, sitting back on his heels.   
  
“Louis, what--”  
  
“You don’t have to say any of that, okay? I’m here already, I’m into it, okay, I’m  _giving_ it to you, you don’t have to fucking  _court_ me, alright, this isn’t  _The Bachelorette_ \--”  
  
“What are you even talking about? I’m not saying any of it ‘cause I think I have to. I  _want_ to. I’m saying it because it’s true and I want you to know--”  
  
“But--” Louis starts, because he just doesn’t understand this. It doesn’t make any sense to him.  
  
“Is it really that hard to believe that someone might actually like you, Louis?”  
  
Louis’s breath hitches in his throat, and his eyes feel dry and his chest burns a little and he can’t stand Harry looking at him for even a second longer so he climbs to his feet and runs back to Harry’s bathroom. He dives into the bathtub because he doesn’t feel like trying to hunt down his clothes and he doesn’t want Harry to see him naked anymore, but the bubbles are almost all gone and the water is cold and he feels confused and wretched, really really wretched.  
  
Harry follows him. They just stare at each other, and for some reason Louis’s never felt more vulnerable -- not when he was masturbating to an audience, not when a stranger was fucking him in front of multiple cameras and a room full of people, not when he was the centerpiece of an orgy, not when he agreed to wear women’s underwear for his boyfriend in high school -- but now, curled up naked in Harry’s cold bath tub with Harry’s green eyes pinning him to the wall.   
  
“It must be cold in there by now,” Harry says, eyes soft and concerned. Louis feels like saying  _don’t look at me_ , can feel the words bubbling in his throat but he pushes them down and nods instead.  
  
“Can I get back in with you?”  
  
Louis shakes his head, and so many words fight in his throat but he swallows them all down.  
  
“Can I bring you some sweats or something?   
  
“If you want.”  
  
Harry watches him a moment longer before retreating back to his room. Louis calls out to him hoarsely, “But Harry you don’t  _have_ to--”  
  
“I want to!” He calls back, and Louis allows himself to slip under the cold water again because he doesn’t understand, so he settles for the things that make sense to him -- the water, the cold, his cock, the prunes on his fingers, the way Harry’s shampoo bottle matches up with his smell.  
  
“Here,” Harry says quietly, standing at the end of the tub. He helps Louis climb out, and maybe he should look away, to protect his modesty or something, but he refuses to, staring at Louis unabashedly and willing him to stare back.  
  
Louis drowns in Harry’s clothes. Harry can’t stop looking at him -- the way his jumper falls over Louis’s hands and the collar slips off his shoulder and the pants drag on the floor. Harry makes them both lunch and they eat on the couch, cross-legged and facing each other.   
  
“You’re an actor,” Harry says suddenly, breaking the strange silence they’ve kept going and Louis cringes. He’s an actor. He glances up at Harry, who’s looking at him like  _dare me to stop,_ and Louis doesn’t.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So -- so how’s that?” Harry asks awkwardly. Louis’s shoulders curl in on himself.  
  
He takes a bite of his sandwich. “Er...rough,” he says, trying not to think of what he really means. “A lot of people want to be actors, you know? And I’m not exactly...well, I’m not quite what most people are looking for, yeah?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well, most casting directors, they want, y’know, big, tall, rugged types. Someone  _handsome._ I’m not -- I’m not  _handsome_  --”  
  
“Yes you are,” Harry says seriously, but Louis cuts him off.  
  
“No. No, I’m not. Look, this isn’t an insecurity thing, alright, you don’t have to defend me. I’m just saying -- I’m not Brad Pitt, yeah? I’m not big or manly or any of those things-"  
  
“Okay, but so what? I think it’s going out of style anyways -- the sort of rugged, classic thing. People want something different. I mean think about some of the most-coveted people out there now -- most of them are scrawny and short and --”  
  
“Are you calling me scrawny and short?” Louis demands.  
  
“No, no, love, you’re curvaceous and Adonis-like, okay -- what I was  _saying_ is that there’s a huge market out there. Look, actors can’t all look like Brad Pitt because the characters actors are supposed to play aren’t all like Brad Pitt. You get me? That type isn’t right for every character. That’s why they need lots of different types of actors. Like you. There’s a character out there that you’re perfect for. ‘s just a matter of finding it.”  
  
Louis stares at him. “Do you write motivational speeches or something?”  
  
Harry sighs and tosses his plate onto the coffee table.   
  
“I’m kidding. That was -- that was great. I feel erm...I feel better.”  
  
“Do you really?”  
  
“Yeah. And look, Harry, it’s not like I’ve never been cast. I have been. Mostly theatre, you know? Few commercials.”  
  
“Can I see them?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I’m going to google you.”  
  
“No!” Louis says, too fiercely.   
  
Harry’s eyes widen, taken aback. “Um...alright.”  
  
“Please...just. Please don’t.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because I asked you not to.”  
  
And it’s not that Louis’s afraid he’ll find the porn, because he won’t. He’s  _Louis Lucas_ and Harry doesn’t know that and Harry never will. The problem is that if Harry searches  _Louis Tomlinson_ he won’t find anything at all. No commercials, no agency website, not even an IMDB page. Nothing. And then he’ll ask questions that Louis won’t have answers to and Louis can’t have that. He can’t.  
  
“So what do you normally do then?” Harry asks gently, shattering his reverie. “What’s a normal day?”  
  
“Get up, practice my monologues, gather up my head shots, update my resume, and go to auditions. All I can get. It’s -- it’s enough. I’ve done alright. I don’t like talking about it much though, to be honest?” He says this like a question because if he’s too severe about it Harry might become suspicious.  
  
“Yeah, I figured as much.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“You don’t need to be sorry about it,” Harry says. Then, “What will you talk about?”  
  
“I dunno,” Louis shrugs. Then, flirtatiously, “Ask and find out.”  
  
“What about your friends? Zayn and Liam? Are they actors too?”  
  
Louis gapes at him. “You remembered their names?”  
  
“Sure I did.” Harry smiles charmingly.   
  
“Er...yeah. Yeah, they’re actors too.”  
  
“How’s it for them?”  
  
“Same as me I guess. We’re all waiting for our big breaks and all.  
  
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Harry sighs, obviously referring to his singing. Louis’s beginning to realize that he’s much more a part of Harry’s world then Harry is of his, and it’s sad, that it always has to be this way.   
  
“You’ll get yours,” Louis says confidently, brushing his knee against Harry’s with a fond, squinty little smile. “You’re so talented.”  
  
“I’m sure you are too. Can I see you some time? In like a play or something?”  
  
“Er...” Louis goes red, discomfort squirming in his belly. “I um. Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose so. I’m not really involved in anything at the moment. ‘s a bit embarrassing, really.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t care,” Harry waves him off. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there to watch you. If you want me there, of course.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
They’re okay. Louis leaves in the late afternoon. Harry kisses him sweetly at the door, and Louis realizes they spent the whole day together and didn’t fuck once, and his head is fogged up with _what are we_ and  _what is happening_ and  _why am i so fucking fucked-up, fuck_ but then he touches two fingers to his lips and remembers Harry and he smiles.   
  
They’re okay.  
  
\--  
  
It’s Tuesday and Louis is standing naked with his feet spread apart while Eleanor slicks oil over his skin. He’s a stripper today.   
  
It’s a big shoot. Simon has been preparing it for months now -- Louis has seen the first draft of the script, and the second and the third and the eighth before Simon was finally happy with it. He’s been designing the set for weeks, picking the perfect music, fucking  _choreographing_ , and Louis’s been there through it all, learning his moves and practicing and practicing and practicing until he’s  _good,_ until he could walk into any random strip club and work the stage like a professional. The top was cast a few weeks after Louis.  
  
His “name” is Blake Brighton, and he’s two years older than Louis. He used to work for Syco, until it was bought out by X Factor, Simon’s rival company. Blake switched to Simon after a year at X Factor, after a lot of tedious bribing and contract mending and cock measuring. Louis’s never shot with him before, but Liam has. In his words, he has “a bit of an ego.”  
  
Either Liam was being disingenuous or he’s just far too kind-hearted. Blake is the worst porn star Louis’s ever had to work with, and this shoot, unfortunately, called for legitimate  _rehearsals,_ weeks and weeks of giving lap dance after lap dance until Louis’s thighs ached and he all but collapsed on his couch when he was finally allowed to crawl back to his flat. Blake is everything Peter was, amplified tenfold -- arrogant and rude and too-rough, manhandling Louis like an object and barely tending to his needs. Louis tried to talk to Simon about it --  _look, just ask him to be a little more aware of his attitude, and, you know,_ me, _please_ \-- but the words went right over Blake’s head. He nodded and smiled cruelly and continued to treat Louis like dirt or sometimes simply ignoring him completely.  
  
But the day of the shoot has finally arrived, and Louis can’t wait to get it over with. Simon has him wearing nothing tiny gold hot pants and braces, plus the thin sheen of oil and glitter that Eleanor and Lucy are currently applying. Blake’s playing the stereotypical businessman who’s feeling a little experimental. It’s a long shoot with multiple scenes -- first there’s a dancing scene with just Louis, followed by the lap dance and a blow job. Then Blake buys a private room, where they continue what they started.  It’s a lot of crude dirty talk and comeplay and robust displays of Blake’s precious masculinity, and Louis can barely tolerate any of it.  
  
Louis dances his way through four takes of the first scene -- he sweats off some of the glitter but Simon insists he looks good this way, flushed and dirty and fuckable. By the time Blake appears in his business suit and takes a seat in front of the stage, Louis actually feels good about himself. He grinds into Blake’s lap, determined to make him pay attention, to break out of his stupid repressed little shell and  _react_ to him, instead of just stare up at Louis with surly, practiced disinterest like he does in every rehearsal.   
  
He turns so his back is pressed along the hard expanse of Blake’s well-muscled torso, his thighs falling on either side of Blake’s legs. He rolls his hips so his bum is right on top of Blake’s dick, and lets his head fall back against Blake’s shoulder. The music goes darker, slower, and Blake attaches his mouth to Louis’s bared throat, kisses up to his ear. Louis is surprised, and so is Simon, clearly; he has a camera move in for a close-up, and Louis makes sure his face isn’t doing anything stupid while Blake continues to bite at his jaw.  
  
He’s roughly spun around, so he and Blake are face-to-face, and the camera closes in on the rapidly decreasing distance between their mouths as Blake closes the gap, kissing Louis fiercely and squeezing at his arse. Louis grinds forward, hips moving in tiny, teasing circles until he feels Blake grow hard beneath him. His lips curve into a dirty smile against Blake’s mouth, and his head is yanked back by his hair as Blake attacks his neck again, sucking bruises into the skin.  
  
Then Louis is pushed off Blake’s lap and onto his knees, where he delivers the aforementioned blow job. Blake’s supposed to just come on his face a little but it goes a bit awry, landing in his hair and slipping down his chin and streaking across his cheekbones. Simon loves every minute of it -- zooming in crudely on Louis’s red-rimmed eyes and the filthy mix of glitter and come decorating Louis’s face.   
  
The scene ends and before Louis can rise off his knees, Blake’s in his ear whispering  _you little fucking slut_ and Louis’s heart is in his stomach and his knees don’t seem to want to let him up so he stays there, his breath coming in short, quick pants and his cock still throbbing uncomfortably, restricted in the hot pants.   
  
No one even notices but El, who gathers him up in her arms and drags him to her chair, running a warm, fruity-smelling wet rag over his cheeks and under his hairline and behind his ears and neck. He can feel Blake’s dark, mean gaze on his cheek while she takes care of him, but he just can’t bring himself to confront it while he’s still half-hard and covered in his come.  
  
Finally, he approaches him, coming up behind Blake’s shoulder to whisper fiercely in his ear, “What the hell was that?”  
  
“What the hell was what?” Blake returns, dripping with disdain, his eyes flicking up and down Louis’s body.  
  
“What you said. Don’t you dare fucking talk to me like that,  _ever--”_  
  
“Oh yeah, Tomlinson? And how exactly do you plan on enforcing that? I’m a foot taller than you and it’s literally  _my job_ to crush you with my dick, so I’d fuck off if I were you.”  
  
“If you want to keep your fucking job, you’d better pull your head out of your sad, neglected asshole and realize that  _I fucking own this place_. My arse has sold more porn alone that all the other models  _combined_  and I’ve got Simon wrapped around my little finger.  _No one here even knows your fucking name._ ”  
  
Blake laughs, stepping closer to Louis until he has no choice but to back against the wall. Blake uses every inch of his height to his advantage, bearing over Louis as he whispers, “After this shoot Tomlinson, if you aren’t too sore,  _I’m going to put your faggot arse in its fucking place.”_  
  
Louis’s vision shifts and his knuckles whiten and his heartbeat is so loud in his ears that he can’t even hear himself say  _what did you fucking call me_?  
  
 _Faggot faggot faggot,_ low and rough and demented in his ear, and Louis pushes Blake off and storms over to Simon and says, “Get him out.”  
  
There’s a hand on his shoulder -- El’s or Simon’s or Lucy’s -- and it’s supposed to be calming but instead it burns him,  _don’t touch me,_ he whispers, and then,  _get him out, get him out, get him out._ Simon’s cooing in his ear, “It’s okay, Lou, we’re almost finished, I’ll fire him after this? Okay? But we have to finish. You’re a professional, Louis, remember? You’re a professional. Best in the business. You can handle this."  
  
And of course Simon would say that,  _of course,_ and now he has to finish it because in the back of his mind there’s a little voice whispering  _this is all you’re good at_ and  _if you fail at this, you’ll have failed at everything_ because Louis’s never been good enough for anything until this,  _this_ he excelled at and if he can’t do this what could he possibly do?  
  
So he finishes the scene. Blake’s fingertips leave white-hot burns all over Louis’s skin, sinking all the way to his bones until his blood is itching. He’s never felt dirtier or uglier or more useless than when Blake pounded into him on the empty stripper stage, Louis holding tight to the pole while his legs were spread impossibly wide and his throat was bit into and Blake whispered over and over in his ear,  _slut_ and  _whore_ and  _bitch_ and it’s supposed to be hot, isn’t it?   
  
Louis’s humiliation will bring thousands of people to orgasm, and they won’t even  _know._ They’ll have no idea how sick he felt in that instant because he’s too fucking good at his job to show it.   
  
The minute Simon calls “cut,” Blake leans down and whispers  _faggot,_ collecting some of Louis’s come onto his fingers and pressing it against his mouth.   
  
Louis scrambles onto his feet and punches him across the jaw.  
  
What happens next is a blur: Blake is fired and Louis is  _suspended,_ Blake goes home and masturbates to gay porn and cries and Louis vomits into his toilet because all of a sudden he’s sixteen again and sad and the homophobes just can’t seem to leave the loud, pretty theater kid alone. He tries to call Zayn and Liam but both their phones go to voicemail, and Louis realizes pathetically that they’re probably on a  _date,_ or  _making love_ or  _staring adoringly into each other’s eyes so intensely that they go temporarily deaf and can’t hear their phones ringing._ He calls his mother and his sisters and no one answers.   
  
He sprawls out on his couch, opens his second bottle of wine and stares miserably at his contact list.  
  
He calls Harry. Harry answers. 

-

“Hey, Louis! What’s up, mate?” Harry says as soon as the call’s connected, and he sounds so bright and so lovely and so familiar that Louis bursts into tears.  
  
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, Lou, baby, oh, please stop crying, you’re too lovely to cry -- oh,  _Lou--”_ Harry breaks off, sounding so genuinely distraught by Louis’s suffering that Louis only cries harder, feeling he might be sick again.   
  
“Please, love, it’s going to be okay. I dunno what happened and you don’t even have to tell me alright, you can just cry and I could come over and everything will be okay, Louis,  _you’re going to be okay_ \--”  
  
Harry lets Louis cry to him on the phone for what feels like ages. He never asks what’s wrong, just coos sweet things into the mouthpiece until Louis’s breathing finally slows down, until the hiccups in his chest fade and the little puddle of tears that’s formed on his jumper stops growing.   
  
“Harry?” he finally asks, throat raw and broken-sounding and utterly, utterly pitiful.   
  
“Yes, babe?”  
  
“Could you just -- oh, god -- could you just -- say something nice about me? You don’t even have to mean it, I just need to hear  _something,_ please--” Louis begs, hiding his face in his hands because he’s just so  _embarrassed_ even though there’s no one in the room to see him.  
  
Harry doesn’t ask questions, just tells Louis he’s beautiful and  _so fucking lovely, Louis, it kills me that you don’t get how lovely you are, how sweet and how funny and adorable and how cute your laugh is, when your eyes go all squinty, and how you have the hottest little body I think I’ve ever seen, and you’re definitely the best shag I’ve ever had, and you’re a bit fascinating and a bit of a mystery even though maybe you don’t mean to be, I can’t help but wonder what you’re thinking and what you’re doing and where you’ve been and where you’re going, Louis, you’re still there right?_  
  
“Yeah,” Louis croaks, hugging the wine bottle close and curling his knees to his chest.  
  
“Are you drunk?”  
  
“Not drunk enough.”  
  
“Oh, Lou. Can I come take care of you?”  
  
Louis cries even harder, because  _he can’t,_ even though that’s all Louis wants. But there’s hickeys and bite marks and bruises littering him all over, fingerprints on his hips and purple on his wrists and Harry will  _see_ and he’ll  _ask_ and Louis just isn’t ready to lose him to this yet.   
  
“No,” he says finally. “No you can’t but tomorrow or -- or in a few days, yeah? Can I see you then?”  
  
“Whatever you want. I’ll be there. Okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“You’re okay?”  
  
“Yeah, Harry. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”  
  
“Please be fine, Louis.”  
  
“I’ll try.”  
  
“Alright then. Bye, Louis.”  
  
Louis takes a deep breath. “Harry?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“...thank you.”  
  
“Louis, I meant all those things.”  
  
“Yeah, alright.”  
  
“I wasn’t doing you a favor.”  
  
“Thank you, Harry.” He hangs up and cries himself to sleep, mouth purple with wine and swollen from Blake, and he feels like nothing on his body belongs to himself.  
  
\--  
  
Louis’s given a two-week suspension, and he has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to do to occupy himself. Every moment spent alone and idle is another opportunity for his mind to dwell on all the things he hates about himself, so he keeps himself busy -- he goes to the gym and watches films and goes out dancing to try to pick someone up. He succeeds, mostly, except for once they arrive at his flat he decides they’re too scrawny or too big or too blonde or too dark or too loud or too quiet or too  _nothing at all like Harry Styles,_ and he ends up wanking in his shower, alone and desperate and feeling sorry for himself.  
  
He tries not to call Harry, but he fails miserably and ends up leaving him a voicemail three days after the suspension and the embarrassing phone call. “Harry? I know you’ve had a lot of me lately but I’d really love to see you at some point soon, if you’re up for it. And uh...sorry for the other day. You really shouldn’t have to deal with all that. So yeah. Please call. Bye.”  
  
Harry calls him back that night and invites him over for dinner. Louis shows up right on time, and tries to appear as if he didn’t just spend nearly two hours stressing over which outfit to wear. He settled on a white top, dark red trousers and his braces -- even though Zayn says they make him look like a stripper. Harry gives him a blinding smile and a very obvious once-over before ushering him inside with a strong hand on the back of his neck.  
  
“Sit down, if you please,” Harry says, indicating a bar stool at the kitchen counter. Louis sits while Harry fusses around the kitchen, talking animatedly and pulling out ingredients. “I was going to make carbonara, if that’s alright with you? My mum tells me mine’s good, but I guess I’ll let you be the judge of that.” He sets down a glass of wine in front of Louis.   
  
Louis takes a sip, remaining quiet while Harry busies himself at the stove, glancing at Louis over his shoulder. “You alright, mate? You’re usually more obnoxious than this.”  
  
Louis sticks out his tongue childishly. “Yeah, I’m just a bit...embarrassed, I guess. From the other night.”  
  
Harry swallows and turns his attention back to the stove, snapping the pasta and adding into the pot of boiling water. “Do you er...do you want to talk about it?” He asks awkwardly.  
  
“I mean...it wasn’t anything. Just had a really awful audition...and one of the producers called me a rather nasty name.”  
  
Harry turns around, fixing Louis with a dark, intense stare. “Lou, I’m so sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright!” Louis chirps brightly. “Nothing I haven’t heard before, yeah? I was just feeling...extra sensitive, I suppose. Must be PMS, or something,” he jokes awkwardly, and Harry smiles, indulging him.  
  
“Well, I’m glad you’re better.”  
  
Louis chews on his bottom lip, releasing it to take another long sip of wine. “And what about you? Didn’t you meet with that guy, the big black important one?”  
  
Harry laughs. “You mean Mr. Artaud? Yeah, I did, actually. He was really nice. I sang a few songs for him in the studio and he seemed...well I guess he seemed pleased,” Harry says, trying not too sound as though he’s bragging, especially after Louis’s bad luck.   
  
“Harry! That’s great news! You should be really proud of yourself,” Louis says sincerely, beaming at Harry, who blushes, busying himself with sauce and eggs.   
  
“Thanks, mate.”  
  
“So what’s next?”  
  
“Er...Niall and I are writing some new songs, stuff that’s a bit more reflective of what we’ve been doing recently. Our old stuff is a bit...tired now, you know? We’re hoping to show him that stuff next week, and then we might meet up with some recording producers hopefully.”  
  
“So you’re signed then?”  
  
“Not sure. We haven’t gotten the offer yet, we’re just...sort of courting each other, at the moment? It’s quite a weird process, to be honest.”  
  
Louis’s eyes are soft. “Well I know you’ll get it. You’re  _so_ good, Harry.”  
  
They remain silent for a long moment while Harry finishes the pasta and Louis watches him. Harry arranges two plates and moves them to the table. He even pulls out Louis’s chair like a proper gentleman.   
  
“This smells  _amazing_ ,” Louis says. He picks up his wine glass. “Shall we toast?”  
  
“Toast what?”  
  
“Your record deal!”  
  
Harry’s cheeks turn pink. “Aw, stop it, Lou.”  
  
“Go on, we’re toasting!” Harry reluctantly picks up his glass, smiling bashfully when Louis’s glass  _chinks_ against his. “To Harry being a successful pop star!”  
  
“Don’t want to be a pop star,” Harry mumbles.  
  
“Oh, right, you’re a hipster little singer/songwriter, forgive me,” Louis amends, taking his first bite of pasta.   
  
Harry watches him carefully. “Is it...how is it?”  
  
“Holy shit.”  
  
“Is that a good ‘holy shit’ or bad...?”  
  
“Harry, this is fucking incredible, are you kidding me? Don’t pull that fake modest bullshit on me.”  
  
Harry blushes, watching him chew, eyes lingering on the bob of Louis’s throat. “Wanna know my secret ingredient?”  
  
“Sure,” Louis says, through a mouthful of food.  
  
“It’s semen.”  
  
Louis spits out a wad of half-chewed pasta, while Harry cackles. Louis throws a bit of egg at him. “Cunt.”  
  
“Oh, come on now--”  
  
“ _Here I was_ ,” Louis interrupts loudly, “thinking wow, this Harry Styles, I mean damn, he’s really a proper gentlemen, isn’t he? I mean what a catch -- good cook, good wine, good manners, good face -- and then you have to go and ruin it. Shame, that.”  
  
“I’ll make it up to you.”  
  
“Oh yeah? And how exactly do you propose to do that?”  
  
“By making you the best dessert of your life.”  
  
Louis looks skeptical. “Okay, Harry, look -- which dessert is it this time because you seemed to be a bit confused as when dessert means, you know,  _dessert,_ or when I mean something very different entirely--”  
  
Harry laughs, pink-cheeked. “Well...” he says coyly, licking a bit of sauce off his fork. “We could mix dessert and  _dessert,_ if you catch my drift.”  
  
“What -- you want me to lick whipped cream off your four nipples?”  
  
“Or my cock. You know. Whatever works for you, Louis.”  
  
“Ah!  _Such_ a gentleman--”  
  
“Of course,” Harry says. “Now go on, help me finish this.” Harry lets a long noodle dangle out of his mouth. “Go on, take the other end,” he says through his teeth, wiggling his eyebrows at Louis.   
  
“Oh no. We’re not doing this.”  
  
Harry brushes their noses together, as if they’re puppies, and Louis caves in.  
  
“Oh my god we’re really doing it,” he sighs, taking the other end of the noodle into his mouth. They nibble along until their mouths are touching, and Louis bursts out laughing, even when Harry takes him by the back of the neck, bringing their lips together. It’s a messy, almost painful kiss, because they’re too busy laughing and their teeth clash together.   
  
They repeat the process, and Harry licks off a bit of sauce that lands on Louis’s cheek. “Harry, we are not actually animals, you realize that, yes?”   
  
Harry growls adorably, biting playfully at Louis’s jaw. Louis’s nose wrinkles as Harry attempts to feed him pasta, accepting it into his mouth with a roll of his eyes, fighting back a smile.   
  
“Why do I even like you? You’re cheesier than this fucking pasta.”  
  
“Shut up, you love me,” Harry retorts, planting a wet, loud kiss on Louis’s cheek as he finishes chewing. Louis tries to ignore the squirming feeling in his belly, and the way his heartbeat stutters, lowering his eyes to his lap when Harry’s stare becomes too intense.   
  
His fork clatters to the plate when he’s finished eating, and Harry picks up both their plates and sticks them in the sink.  
  
“D’you want another glass of wine?” He asks.  
  
“No, but I do want some dessert,” he says, with a flirtatious little wink, eyes flicking up and down Harry’s body.   
  
“Think I can arrange that,” Harry says lowly, crossing over the freezer. “I’ve got ice cream, is that alright?”  
  
“You and your ice cream,” Louis says, grinning at Harry’s blush. “Do you have chocolate syrup?”  
  
“Erm. Yes.”  
  
“And whipped cream?”  
  
“I...I think so.”  
  
“What about cherries?” Louis asks softly, pushing out of his chair to come up behind Harry, pressing him against the counter. Harry braces himself against the granite, and Louis’s hands cover his much larger ones, thumbs running over his wrists. He hears Harry’s breath come hard and quick, ducking his head against his chest. Louis tucks his chin over Harry’s shoulder, pressing his lips against his neck.  
  
Suddenly Harry is spinning around, eyes dark and wild, and Louis finds himself lifted off the ground and placed on the counter, as if he’s a child. Harry gathers Louis’s face in his hands and kisses him breathless, nearly growling in the back of his throat. Louis makes a desperate little noise, fisting his hands in Harry’s curls and pulling in him as close as possible, legs curling around Harry’s waist. Harry’s hands slide down Louis’s neck, over his shoulders and down his back, snapping at his braces until Louis winces against his mouth. He squeezes at his arse and Louis’s mouth slips, landing helplessly at the corner of Harry’s lip with a whimper.   
  
Harry takes him by the chin and kisses him, close-mouthed, before leaning into his ear to whisper, “Would you let me lick chocolate off your dick?”  
  
“Um, of course,” Louis says, hands tightening in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. “Why the fuck would anyone ever say no to that? Idiot.” He flicks Harry’s ear. “Sexy little idiot.”  
  
Harry giggles and goes to his refrigerator, pulling out all the necessary supplies.   
  
“Strip,” he orders, arranging a bottle of chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and a little bowl of cherries on the counter.   
  
“You’re going to let me get naked in your precious, pristine kitchen?” Louis gasps. “Harry. This is shocking.”  
  
“Sex comes before cleanliness.”  
  
“ _Priorities_ , Curly.”  
  
“That’s right. Now lay down.” Louis complies, sprawling out on Harry’s kitchen counter, lifting his hips so Harry can help him shimmy out of his tight trousers. His eyes follow Harry as he pops open the cap of chocolate syrup, holding it over his chest. He draws a long, thin line down Louis’s torso, and Louis squirms in surprise when it hits his skin, cold and sticky.   
  
“Lou, what are these?” Harry asks suddenly, pulling away to stare closely at the marks on Louis’s hips. They’re Blake’s faded bruises, scattered over Louis’s flesh, and the harder Harry looks, the more he finds -- pressed into Louis’s wrists, his neck, his ribs, his thighs.   
  
Louis swallows, eyes dancing with nerves before stammering, “I don’t -- I don’t know. Maybe they’re from you?”  
  
“Maybe,” Harry says softly, leaning down to scrape his thumb over a bruise stretched over Louis’s hipbone. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, staring at Louis’s with questions burning in his eyes, but decides against it, bearing over Louis to proceed with dessert.  
  
He holds Louis’s wrists to the counter as he drags his tongue over his skin, starting from the sharp blade of his hip, up to the delicate bow of his collarbone, making a mess of the chocolate on Louis’s chest. He lingers at his nipples, flicking his tongue until Louis is whining pitifully, hot and over-sensitized.   
  
Once all the chocolate is gone, Harry takes a dollop of whipped cream on his finger and smears it across Louis’s mouth. Louis’s tongue darts out to chase Harry’s finger, catching him by the wrist to suck his finger into his mouth. Harry watches him, and Louis thinks he looks almost possessed with lust, pupils so blown that his eyes look nearly black. Harry removes his finger and tugs Louis down the counter until his arse is just at the edge, and he pulls Louis’s thighs open to stand between them. He heaves Louis up so they’re face-to-face and slides a cherry between his teeth before pushing it into Louis’s mouth. He licks a bit of juice off Louis’s chin and smiles filthily before dropping to his knees on the kitchen floor.  
  
“Harry, please don’t put ice cream on my dick,” Louis says drily, watching Harry warily as he reaches up for the chocolate syrup, wiggling his eyebrows.  
  
“What, is my spunk alone not good enough for you?” Louis demands, and Harry slaps his thigh, shutting Louis up once he draws a line of chocolate along the length of his penis. Louis’s entire body tenses at the cold, whimpering as Harry’s lips drag over his cock teasingly before finally taking the head, staring up at Louis hotly. He gags briefly once he’s taken the whole length, but he forces himself to hold it, wanting to be as good as Louis was for him. He finally pulls off with a wet gasp before going down again, smearing chocolate over his mouth and making a mess of Louis’s inner thigh. He sucks until Louis’s legs begin to tremble, hands tightening in Harry’s hair.   
  
 _“Please, Harry,_ ” Louis begs, stroking through Harry’s curls. “Can I come? Please? Can I--”  
  
He’s coming before Harry finishes nodding, digging his nails into Harry’s scalp as he tries to swallow as much as possible. He tries to lick Louis clean once he’s finished because there’s still a bit of chocolate left, but Louis’s pulling him up to his feet by his hair with an urgent little whine. He kisses Harry deeply, tasting chocolate and come and it’s incredibly overwhelming. His legs tighten around Harry’s middle, pulling him in closer until he’s suddenly very aware of Harry’s erection, pressing into his thigh.   
  
“Do you want to fuck me?” Louis whispers, thumbing away a streak of chocolate at the corner of his mouth.   
  
“Louis, when is the answer to that question ever going to be  _no_...”  
  
Louis giggles into his neck, fingers fussing at Harry’s zipper. “It’s gonna be so  _dirty_ , though,” he says hotly. “Unsanitary, really. I mean, you  _cook_ in here, Harry.”  
  
“Louis, I just licked chocolate off your dick and you think I’m worried about cleanliness?”  
  
Louis just laughs.  
  
“Besides,” Harry mutters. “I’m planning on fucking  _bleaching_ the entire place tomorrow...”  
  
“Now  _there’s_ the neat freak I know and love,” Louis teases. “I could help you, you know.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Harry says, shaking his head adamantly. “Knowing you, we’d just end up fucking each other on the kitchen floor--”  
  
“And that’s a bad thing?”   
  
“Well no, but when I’m trying to  _clean--”_  
  
“No, I’d be good, Harry. Really. And it’d finally give me an excuse to bring out my french maid outfit--”  
  
Harry nearly chokes. “You -- what?”  
  
Louis nearly wets himself laughing. “Oh my god, Harry,  _your face--”_  
  
Harry holds on to his heart, staring at Louis incredulously.   
  
“Actually, though,” Louis chirps, once he’s regained his composure. “I do have a french maid outfit. It’s from Halloween. Though I think Zayn and Liam threw it away--”  
  
“ _Why_ would they do that?” Harry demands furiously.  
  
Louis’s eyes widen, smiling devilishly. “Oh? Someone’s got a bit of a dirty fetish there, haven’t they?”  
  
“No!” Harry defends himself weakly. “I just -- I mean--”  
  
“It’s alright, Harry,” Louis grins. “I just plan on holding this over your head, forever, that’s all.”  
  
Harry grabs Louis by the back of the neck, kissing him fiercely. Louis gives in to it almost immediately, hands crushed weakly between their chests as Harry lowers him back to the counter, then steps back to watch him. Louis pants breathlessly under his gaze, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as both he and Harry realize that Louis’s become hard again. Harry gives him a dirty smirk before tugging Louis forward until his feet are on the ground, then roughly bending him over the counter, face-first.   
  
“Manhandler!” Louis cries, trying not to sound as turned-on as he is, and failing miserably.   
  
“You love it,” Harry whispers roughly in his ear, and Louis shivers as he feels Harry’s huge hands stroking down his back before landing at his arse, pulling his cheeks apart. Harry crouches down to open him up with his tongue, stabbing into him until Louis is wet and desperate for it, hips squirming pitifully into the countertop.  
  
Harry stands up and reaches around to stick his fingers in Louis’s mouth. Louis sucks on them eagerly, getting them sufficiently wet so Harry can slide them into his arse, scissoring him carefully before slowly replacing his fingers with his cock, pressing soft, apologetic kisses into the the dip between Louis's shoulder blades to distract from the burn.   
  
Louis cries out, burying his face in his arms as Harry begins to pick up a rhythm. He ruts into the counter as Harry takes a hold of his hips, staring down at the sight of his cock disappearing into Louis’s round, perfect arse.   
  
“Please,  _please,_ faster, Harry,” Louis whispers roughly, and Harry’s hips snap into Louis so hard that his entire body slides violently across the counter, wracked by the power of Harry’s thrusts. He bites into the back of his wrist as Harry’s pace becomes more and more relentless, and suddenly Harry is wrenching Louis’s arms behind his back, holding his wrists together in one strong grip, leaving Louis helpless to just  _take it_ , body jolting weakly at every thrust, limbs trapped and shaking against the counter until he finally loses it, coming spraying under his belly all over the kitchen counter. Harry’s orgasm follows quickly, and he pulls out of Louis to aim at his back, coming over the tan expanse of Louis’s skin until he collapses on top of him, panting breathlessly.   
  
He combs back Louis’s sweaty hair and kisses him sweetly on his shoulder, listening to the sound of Louis’s ragged, uneven breathing as he tries to regain his composure. Harry finally pulls out and flips Louis over, kissing him softly before leaving to retrieve a wet rag. He cleans Louis gently, washing his cock and his back and his belly, leaving sweet, reverent kisses on his neck. Louis watches him with a fond, shaky smile, reaching up to pull Harry down into another long kiss, hot and lazy and slow.  
  
Harry guides him off the counter and leads him to his bedroom, pulling back the sheets so Louis can climb in. Harry settles in beside him, and Louis looks at him like he wants to rest his head on Harry’s chest, but he isn’t sure if he’s allowed. There’s a strange, uncomfortable marriage of sadness and fondness squirming in the pit of Harry’s belly, and he pulls Louis in by the back of the neck, trying to translate every impulse of adoration he’s feeling into his kiss. Louis submits to it sweetly, lips falling open under Harry’s.  
  
The kisses get lazier and more aimless until Louis finally kisses down Harry’s neck, nuzzling his face into Harry’s chest. Harry kisses the top of his head, buries his lips in Louis’s fine, soft hair and whispers, “You know? I’ve always wanted to fuck someone on that kitchen counter, but I’ve never met anyone before you who was worth the mess.”  
  
It’s cheesy -- horribly cheesy, really -- and hardly romantic at all but somehow it’s still one of the nicest things Louis thinks anyone’s ever said about him, and he says so, quietly so maybe Harry won’t hear him.   
  
Harry’s stomach squirms again, eyes running over the long curl of Louis’s eyelashes against his cheeks, his pert little nose, his pink lips, dragging his thumb over the fine, fragile bones of Louis’s face, telling Louis with his fingers and his lips that he’s lovely,  _the loveliest boy I’ve ever seen,_ and that’s how Louis falls asleep.

-

 _“Lou, I’ve got to run to the studio. I’m writing songs with a friend tonight, but we could meet up tomorrow yeah? There’s tea in the kettle and muffins on the counter. I left the key by the door, just lock it and put the key under the mat when you leave. Love, Harry :)”_  
  
Louis finds the note sticking out under a tea cup when he wakes up, well past one in the afternoon, with sun streaming through Harry’s shutters in thick, dreamy shafts. He rubs his eyes and stumbles into Harry’s kitchen, and memories of the night before come to him in pieces -- the cleaning supplies Harry left on the counter, the bottle of chocolate syrup in the trash can, the wine glasses in the sink.   
  
“Is it safe to eat these muffins if they’ve been on your counter? ;)” Louis texts Harry, idly pouring himself a cup of tea, now cold.   
  
Harry’s response is near-immediate. “Don’t worry, babe, I scrubbed down everything -- twice.”  
  
Louis sticks his tea in Harry’s microwave, nibbling on a blueberry muffin and wishing it didn’t taste so damn good.  _Add excellent baking skills to the list,_ Louis finds himself thinking bitterly, gulping down his tea and returning to Harry’s room. His clothes are filthy so he sends Harry another text: “mind if i borrow some of your clothes? mine are dirty ;)”   
  
Harry’s response takes longer than this time, and Louis chews nervously on his lip, wondering if Harry’s judging his abusive over-use of the winky face.   
  
“As long as you take a picture ;) you look sexy in my clothes.”   
  
Louis can’t help the huge grin that spreads across his face at the response, and he immediately begins searching through Harry’s wardrobe. It’s perfectly organized -- everything is clean and neatly-folded and organized by type. Louis selects one of Harry’s big, cozy jumpers. He inhales its scent -- a delicate mix of laundry detergent and cinnamon and Harry’s cologne -- before tugging it on, standing thoughtfully in front of Harry’s mirror. He pulls on his own pants -- Harry’s got longer legs than him and they’d probably just look silly. Honestly, the jumper looks a bit ridiculous too -- the sleeves hang over Louis’s hands and his torso is practically swimming in fabric.   
  
He takes a silly mirror picture and sends it to Harry. He responds a few minutes later with a picture of his stupid, beaming face and his own thumbs-up pressed against his dimpled cheek. It’s obnoxiously adorable. Louis feels his heart rise to his throat, because nothing about this situation is really  _normal,_ is it? He thinks back to Harry making him a fancy dinner then licking chocolate off his dick and fucking him on his kitchen counter and getting upset over the thought that maybe Louis’s bruises weren’t his and trusting him in his flat alone and making him muffins and leaving him a key and letting Louis borrow his clothes and borrow his smile and borrow his body and what are they, even? They’re not boyfriends. They’re not anything. Just boys who fuck each other sometimes and use each other when they need to hear how much they’re worth -- when Harry needs a supportive face in the crowd and Louis needs someone to tell him he’s lovely.  
  
But they’re not anything, really.  
  
\--  
  
“Ed? Ed, I’m at your flat, so put your fucking clothes on,” Harry says, voice booming through the wood, fist thumping at Ed’s door.   
  
“Oy, it’s unlocked, just come in!” Ed shouts.   
  
Harry lets himself in with a shrug, propping his guitar against the wall and wandering through the flat until he spies Ed’s shock of orange hair peeking out over the couch.   
  
“You weren’t actually wanking, were you?” Harry says tentatively. “Because I’m not sure I’m ready for that to be completely honest.”  
  
“What? It’s not scary down there or anything. Nothing to be afraid of.”  
  
“Does the carpet match the drapes?”  
  
“Well, yes, sort of, but I’m not a fucking firecrotch or anything. It’s a bit...darker down there.”  
  
“But still ginger-colored?”  
  
“Not quite. Why are you so invested in my pubes anyways?”  
  
“Just a casual interest, no need to get excited,” Harry assures him, smirking. “So we going to write some songs together or what?”  
  
“Yeah, of course. Got us a big mess of sushi to share, too.”  
  
“Ooh la la,” Harry coos, ruffling Ed’s hair. “This is a proper date, mate. I didn’t think you knew how to take care of a  _lady_.”  
  
Ed laughs at Harry’s cheek smirk, flicking his dimple. “Hey, I heard you were proper locked down, Hazza. Some twinky kid?”  
  
“What?” Harry says, smile coming false and confused. “Who said that?”  
  
“Nick. But you know, Nick’s a fucking gossip anyways.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says, frowning. “Yeah. So those songs, mate?”  
  
“Right.” Ed pulls his guitar off the neighboring chair, laying it over his lap. He flips open his laptop to open a word document, hurriedly trying to exit out of an internet window that was already open, but Harry is too quick.  
  
“Ed! You naughty boy! That’s  _porn!_ ” Harry cackles delightedly, snatching the laptop away from Ed’s reach. He stares at the computer screen. “And it’s  _gay porn_. Ed, I didn’t even know you swung that way!”  
  
“Only sometimes...” Ed defends himself pathetically, but he cuts himself off at the look on Harry’s face.   
  
“Haz? Haz, you okay?”  
  
Harry’s smile is suddenly wiped clean. He stares at the computer screen, brow furrowed, lips bitten-white between his teeth, and presses play.  
  
There’s absolutely no mistaking it. That’s none other than Louis Tomlinson getting fucked by a male pornstar, and looking like he’s loving every minute of it. Harry  _knows_ those eyes, that hair, that  _arse,_ the way his back arches when he’s getting fucked from behind, the way he bites his lip when he’s in pain, what he  _sounds like_ when his orgasm’s close.   
  
He reads the title of the video over and over --  _Simon Cowell Productions Presents ‘Teacher’s Pet’  Starring Louis Lucas and Peter King_. Louis  _Lucas._ But that’s not Louis Lucas. It’s Louis Tomlinson -- Harry’s Louis, who’s supposed to be an actor, who always looks like he’s just had sex, who knows all sorts of tricks in bed, who always looks surprised when Harry wants him to stay until morning, who  _hid in Harry’s bathtub_ when Harry wanted to know more about him.  
  
Louis Lucas.  
  
“Haz? Haz, seriously, talk to me, you look like you’re about to throw my laptop, which, don’t, please--”  
  
“That’s -- That’s Louis,” Harry says dazedly. He clears his throat, and Ed stares at him like he’s lost his mind.  
  
“Er? The name of that pornstar? Yeah--”  
  
“ _Pornstar,_ ” Harry chokes. “He’s a fucking  _pornstar_ \--” He clutches his face, shoving the laptop away from him. “Ed, he’s a fucking  _pornstar!”_  
  
“Okay, mate, slow down. What -- who exactly are we talking about here?”  
  
Harry stares up at him, wild and unfocused, heart thumping madly, jostling his ribs. “Ed, that’s Louis. That’s --  _my Louis._ Nick -- okay, the “twinky kid” Nick mentioned? His name’s Louis Tomlinson. And he’s on your fucking computer screen getting fucked by another bloke.”  
  
Ed swallows, sitting down next to Harry carefully. “So you’re saying -- erm. Your boyfriend’s a porn star?”  
  
“Yes!” Harry cries, and Ed leans a way from him, terrified of being accidentally hit by Harry’s flailing arms. “And I -- I didn’t have a single fucking clue,” he breathes, still staring at the computer screen as if Louis’s face might change, as if he might spontaneously go away, and Harry will never have to worry about any of this.  
  
“So what does this mean?” Ed asks quietly, and Harry’s eyes dart to meet his, helpless and confused and maybe a bit enraged.   
  
“I dunno,” he whispers.   
  
“Well, here, let’s -- let’s just look into this, okay?” Ed says patiently, taking the computer from Harry carefully. He types “Louis Lucas” into the search bar, and pages and pages of titles come up. There’s an article about a temporary suspension for  _hitting another pornstar_ dated from a week ago. There’s tons of information, from his penis size to his preferences to the intimate details of his sexuality, his kinks, his “ideal partner” ( _tall, brunette, fit, well-endowed, and charming)._ There are creepy blogs that call him names Harry’s not sure if he should be offended by. There are videos of Louis masturbating, videos of him getting fucked by one guy, two guys, three guys, a fucking  _gangbang_ for Christ’s sake. He’s a student, a teacher, a prison inmate, a _cowboy._ He’s a  _pornstar._  
  
Harry’s hands might be shaking.  
  
“You really didn’t know?” Ed asks gently, and Harry turns on him, furious.  
  
“No. Did you?” He demands. “Why the fuck was this video here? How did you get this?”   
  
“A -- a mate sent it to me. That’s all. Harry, I had no idea this was your boy. It was perfectly innocent, I swear.”  
  
“Someone just -- just “sent” it to you? How fucking popular is he?” Harry groans, feeling his skin become tighter and tighter.   
  
“Pretty popular, I guess. My mate just said he was a pretty twink with a nice arse, thought I’d like it.”  
  
“A  _pretty twink with a nice arse_ \--”  
  
“Harry, come on...”  
  
“Does Nick know?” He demands weakly, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap.  
  
“Babe, no one knows. Apparently he’s kept that secret well shut.”  
  
Harry falls back against the seat, closing his eyes with a long, shaky sigh. Ed shuts his laptop discreetly.   
  
“Are you going to um...gonna talk to him?”   
  
“To Louis? What do I even say?” Harry moans. “Hey, Lou. Was at a mate’s the other day, and he was actually jerking off to a video of you getting fucked by another bloke. Funny, that.”  
  
Ed pats his knee, awkwardly. “I’m...Harry, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” Harry says bitterly, standing up from Ed’s couch.   
  
“No songs then?”  
  
“Don’t think I’ve got in me at the moment. Sorry, mate.”   
  
Ed wraps Harry in his arms, feeling his limbs go weak. Harry pushes his face into Ed’s neck, squeezing at his back. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”  
  
Ed runs his hand through Harry’s curls, comforting. “Call me, if you need anything. Alright?”  
  
“Thanks, mate.”  
  
“No problem. Be happy, Hazza, yeah?”  
  
His mates are always telling him this.  _Be happy. Happy, happy Hazza. It’s why we love you._ But he doesn’t know how to be happy right now, or how to be sad or angry or anything other than confused, and all over a boy, a boy who’s supposed to be nothing, a boy who suddenlybecame his entire worldin a moment, in the space of a heartbeat, in the time it took to click a fucking button ( _or was it weeks and weeks of slow, sinking feeling, so slow Harry didn’t even notice it, so smooth, so natural that it seeped into his bones without him realizing, and one day he woke up, with Louis’s name on his lips._  
  
 _And he didn’t ask questions.)_  
  
 _\--_  
  
It’s been three days since Harry’s called him, and Louis can’t help but think somewhere along the line, without even realizing it, he fucked it up.  
  
“Li?” He’s saying, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder while he pulls at the cork of a wine bottle with his teeth. “Li, I’m telling you, he doesn’t want me anymore. Maybe I wasn’t grateful enough about the dinner. Or maybe he thought it was weird that I once wore a french maid costume on Halloween. Or maybe he’s still weirded out about that night I called him after the shoot with Blake...” Louis babbles, wandering into his bedroom, uncorked wine bottle in hand.   
  
He examines himself in front of his mirror, turning around to check out his arse. “Or maybe my bum’s just too big.”  
  
“Louis, don’t be an idiot.”  
  
Louis takes a giant swig of wine, straight from the bottle. “What would you know?” He demands. “You’ve got a lover! You never have to be insecure about anything!”  
  
“Well, neither should  _you,_ because you’re beautiful...”  
  
“Shut up, you’re practically paid to say that.”  
  
He hears Liam sigh over the phone.  
  
“Won’t you and Zayn come over and help me lay waste to this fucking liquor cabinet?”  
  
He can hear Zayn shouting something in the background, and Liam’s quiet little sigh. “Louis, I’m sorry, but Zayn and I have been planning this night for months.”  
  
“What? Are you going on a fucking  _date?_ ” Louis demands.  
  
“Well, yes--”  
  
“Ugh,” Louis groans. “Fuck off.” He hangs up, tossing his phone onto the couch and throwing himself dramatically into a chair, wine bottle clasped dangerously between his thighs.   
  
“Love me,” he says, to his perfectly empty room.   
  
No one responds.  
  
He picks himself up with a sigh, and begins to flip through his contacts. There are hundreds of numbers, most of which were entered without him even knowing -- interested blokes in clubs, one-night-stands who thought they’d get to stay until morning, weekend flings being polite.   
  
He calls Harry, and remembers a time when he would’ve been included as one of the above.   
  
It goes straight to voicemail, again. “Hey, Harry?” He says tentatively after the tone. “Er, I haven’t heard from you in a while. If you’re not...well, if you’re not already doing something, or if you don’t have any plans, would you want to...come over? Or we could go out, I suppose. Whatever you want, I’m up for anything, really. So yeah. Call me? Er, please. Hope you’re doing well.” He pauses. “This is Louis, by the way. Not sure if you could tell. I mean, you probably could. But then again -- well anyways, I’m rambling,” he laughs nervously. “Sorry. Bye, Harry.”  
  
Five minutes later, Harry texts him:  _“I can be there in 10.”_  
  
It looks abnormally  _cold_ to Louis, though he’s probably just being overly sensitive. He replies, “ _k, see you then!! :) x_ ” and waits pathetically with his wine bottle, staring at his phone until he hears the knock on the door.  
  
“Coming!” Louis shouts, setting the bottle on the coffee table and running to the door. He stops by his mirror, quickly, tugging at his hair and making sure his bum looks good and teeth aren’t stained purple.  
  
“Harry!” He says brightly, throwing open the door with a beaming smile. Harry smiles back, a little awkwardly, but accepts Louis’s hug, patting him gently on the back. Louis steps away, smiling nervously, beckoning Harry to follow him into the kitchen.  
  
“I have er...wine? All kinds, really. And also other things...you like whiskey, if I remember? If you’re hungry, well -- I’m really not a good cook at all, but I could try to whip something up, if you’re willing to brave whatever I throw together--”  
  
“I’m fine, actually,” Harry says. Louis studies his face, helplessly.   
  
“Okay,” he swallows, looking down at his feet. “I’m um -- I’m going to have some wine though, if that’s okay.” He darts into the living room to grab his bottle before Harry can answer.   
  
A light turns on behind him, and Louis jumps to see Harry standing by the lamp, frowning. “It’s dark in here, Lou. Were you just sitting in here drinking wine with no lights on?”  
  
“Um...” Louis gulps. “Yes? Is that weird?”  
  
“A bit.”  
  
“Oh. Well. There isn’t really anything else to do, is there.”  
  
“Well sure there is,” Harry says, frowning. “Don’t you have hobbies?”  
  
“ _Hobbies?_ The fuck do you think I am, a middle-aged divorcee with a match.com account?”  
  
“No,” Harry says exasperatedly. “I mean...don’t you read? Or watch films? Or exercise or travel or write or...anything?”  
  
“Well, sure! Everyone does those things, I’m not sub-human. I just--”  _Am lonely._ “Like this better. That’s all.”  
  
“Drinking wine in the dark?”  
  
“And fucking. If you can call that a ‘hobby.’”  
  
“So wine and fucking. That’s all.”  
  
“Pretty much. Sometimes I sing, I suppose.”  
  
“You  _sing?”_  
  
“Um...yes?”  
  
“And you’ve never mentioned that until now?” Harry demands.   
  
Louis licks his lips, anxious. “Well -- I guess it just didn’t seem important...”  
  
“Louis, that’s literally my  _life._ Singing’s  _everything._ And you never mentioned--?”  
  
“Well it’s not like I’m any good!” He protests weakly. “It’s just for fun, alright? Jesus, what’s with the fucking Spanish Inquisition tonight?”  
  
“Nothing,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair.  
  
“Have I--” Louis bites his lip, staring up at Harry with a strand of pleading. “Have I done something?” He finishes lamely.  
  
“No, Louis,” Harry sighs, half-frustrated and half-gentle, and Louis doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know how to apologize for something he’s unsure of to begin with, so he just does what he knows best: he stands up on his tiptoes with a tentative hand on Harry’s shoulder and kisses him.  
  
Harry kisses back, hands light on Louis’s waist, tongue gentle at his lips -- and Louis can’t help but find it strange. His hands are usually squeezing and roaming and  _possessive,_ like he can never get enough of Louis’s flesh under his fingers. His tongue is usually deep and assertive and skillful. Everything feels flat tonight -- flat and cold and uncertain.   
  
He tries to unbutton Harry’s pants, but Harry pushes his hands away, undressing him instead. He pulls of Louis’s shirt and gestures for Louis to take off his pants, falling back onto the couch. Once Louis’s completely naked, he crawls into Harry’s still-clothed lap, and continues to kiss him -- sweet, featherlight kisses that seem almost  _imploring,_ snaking down Harry’s neck, over his shoulders and chest.   
  
When he looks up, Harry is staring at his bruises, fascinated and spooked all at once, fingers ghosting over his hips and throat. Harry licks his lips slowly, meeting Louis’s eyes with a hard intensity that’s almost intimidating. Louis tries to kiss him again, but Harry holds him still.   
  
“Lou, did I put these here?” He asks breathlessly. Louis closes his eyes, hands twisting together, clasped behind Harry’s neck.  
  
“Yes--”  
  
Harry’s kissing him fiercely, pressing his thumbs deep into the bruises on his hips until Louis winces, squirming in Harry’s lap. Harry pulls him in by the neck, biting down Louis’s jaw and his throat until he’s gasping, but he stops once he arrives at Louis’s collarbone, where a neat string of teethmarks sits, purple and obvious, on the smooth, tan skin.   
  
Harry stares at them, eyes going dark, and suddenly Louis understands. He feels his blood go icy, his heartbeat becoming something hard and desperate, rattling inside of him.   
  
“You saw them, didn’t you?” He asks, voice startling both himself and Harry in the cold, still silence. He barely sounds like himself.   
  
“Saw what?” Harry asks hoarsely. Louis closes his eyes.  
  
“Harry,  _please--_ ” He begs, afraid to look into his eyes but also afraid not to. “Please don’t play dumb.”  
  
He can feel the muscles of Harry’s neck flex under his hands. Harry finds Louis’s wrists, squeezing, and he’s pulling their foreheads together, speaking low into the corner of Louis’s mouth. “Louis,  _why_ didn’t you tell me--”  
  
Louis pushes himself off Harry’s lap, stumbling backwards into the coffee table. His hands are shaking and his ears are ringing and his skin feels hot, his cheeks are burning, his  _eyes_ are burning, and Harry is standing up with him, grabbing his hands and pulling him into his chest. Louis buries his face in Harry’s shirt, holding onto his shoulders for dear life but also trying to pretend like he’s  _not there_ , like no one’s there, like he could just slip away underground, swim away through the sewers and start a new life somewhere, be a new person, be a clean slate.  
  
Harry is cooing shushing noises into his hair, which is confusing until Louis realizes he’s been whispering  _I’m sorry,_ over and over and over, without him even noticing.   
  
“Did you--” he hiccups. “Did you actually watch any of it?”  
  
“No, no, I was...I was at a friend’s, he had it up on his computer, and I happened to see it--”  
  
“Oh my  _god_ ,” Louis moans, and he realizes he’s still  _naked._ He hurriedly grabs his clothes off the floor, tugging them on carelessly and collapsing at the foot of the couch.   
  
“--and, well I didn’t know what to do because you had never told me, obviously, so I was afraid to bring it up but  _not_ telling you also felt wrong, but I figured there had to be a reason you’d lie, there  _had to --_ so what is it, Lou?” He kneels next to Louis on the floor. “What is it?”   
  
“I could never have told you,” Louis whispers, wiping his cheeks on his sleeve.   
  
“Why? You could’ve told me, Louis, you could have -- I don’t think any differently of you, okay--”  
  
“Yes you do.”  
  
“I  _don’t_ ,” Harry says seriously, fixing Louis with that intense stare that used to make Louis feel  _hot_ and wanted and now he just feels  _naked_ and cold and pathetic.  
  
“ _You do._ I saw the way you looked at me when you came in. And when you touched me -- all careful and  _aware_ and accusatory, okay, I know that look. Listen, Harry. Men fuck me. All the time. _On film._ Once, twice, sometimes three times a week.  _And it’s my job._ It’s -- look at me, Harry -- it’s literally  _my job_ to get fucked on camera. How --  _how_ can you be fine with that?!” He demands, voice rising louder and louder with every word.   
  
 _“I don’t know, goddamnit!”_ Harry yells, slamming his fist down on the coffee table, nearly upsetting Louis’s bottle of wine. Louis flinches backwards, curling inwards. “I don’t fucking know, I’m still working it out! I mean, Jesus, it’s not like we’re  _exclusive!_ You’re not my fucking  _boyfriend!”_ He spits. “You’re just a pretty boy I’ve been fucking semi-regularly recently who apparently is also a _porn star_!”  
  
And he says  _porn star_ like it’s a disease, like it’s something disgusting and shameful and  _wrong,_ and that’s what breaks Louis the most. It’s all of his fears and private insecurities, all of his bones, just laid out on the floor for Harry to crush into dust, and he can feel all his defenses crumbling. He presses his forehead into his knees and cries quietly, letting Harry tower over him while he wilts, stabbing the heel of his hand into his eyes to stop them from burning.  
  
“Louis?”   
  
He can feel Harry crouching beside him, can smell his cologne and feel his jumper brushing against his leg. He shakes his head and whispers, “ _Please,_ please, could you just go?”  
  
“Louis...” Harry tries again, putting a hand on Louis’s shoulder, but he flinches away.   
  
“ _Please."_  
  
Just like that, Harry stands up quietly and slips out the door, leaving him curled up on the floor, with his wine bottle and his wet cheeks and his dusty, tired bones. 


	5. The Future

The first time Louis ever met Simon Cowell, he was auditioning for a minor role on a new BBC show about a college football team. The producers were considering him for the part of a closeted goalie, and Simon, one of the directors, had pulled him aside after delivering the news that he hadn’t gotten the part.  
  
He said, “Louis how old are you?” Louis told him. “And you want to be an actor?” Louis said yes. “And how is that going for you?” It wasn’t going well. “Where are you living, currently?” On his friend’s couch. “Would you like to make some quick money?”   
  
His rent was due, and his sisters were about to start school, and his mum was working double shifts nearly every day. “Yes. Yes I would like that very much.”  
  
“Come to this address, please, tomorrow, and I’ll give you the details. Of course this is in no way binding - you are free, at any time, to turn it down.”  
  
Louis found this very odd until he showed up the next day to the lobby of Cowell Productions, and was immediately confronted with a life-size advert for a film called  _Batman in Robin_ , emblazoned with a photo of two naked men.  
  
Simon greeted him, patting Louis’s shoulder when he noticed his mortified expression. “Not what you were expecting?”  
  
“Not quite,” Louis squeaked, allowing Simon to usher him gently into his office.   
  
“Here,” Simon offered, pushing a manila folder across his desk to Louis. “The script for the first film I’d like to cast you in. When you read it, pay close attention to Tom -- that’s you. And see that yellow sheet behind the script? Pull it out, if you would.”  
  
Louis takes out the sheet, eyes widening dramatically as soon as he begins reading. “$2000?”   
  
Simon nods. “Starting rate. And if you end up doing it and signing on with us, it’ll go up. Once you establish a fan base, it’ll go up even more.”  
  
Louis just stares at the sheet of paper.  
  
“Louis, I’m going to be rather blunt: are you gay?”  
  
Louis just nods, pink-cheeked.  
  
“And you’re over 18, right?”  
  
“I’m 19.”  
  
“Good. Very, very good. Now you still look like a deer in headlights, so how about this -- I’ll give you a week to decide? I’ve been trying to cast this part for weeks and there was just no one right for the job. I have about twenty-five models on my staff, but only about 12 of them work regularly, and I could really, really use a fresh face. Porn could always use a fresh face, to be honest. And I’ll be frank with you, Louis: you would be absolutely perfect. You’re gay -- which, you’d be surprised, but a lot of gay porn stars are straight, and that can be quite a challenge to work with sometimes -- you’re very pretty, you’re young, you’re a good actor -- at least from what I saw in that BBC audition -- and you’ve got a bum that could make my company a fortune.”  
  
“Um. Thank you?” Louis says weakly.  
  
“You’re welcome. Now how long is your dick?” Simon asks bluntly.  
  
“It’s...about 6 inches?”  
  
“Is it thick?”  
  
Louis blushes. “I would say so.”  
  
“Alright, love, how about this: in a week, or less if it takes you less time, call me with your decision. Take that folder with you, it’s got all the information you could need. If it’s a yes, you come in, we’ll do a test shoot. That means I get you in front of a camera, get you comfortable being naked on film, and I’ll probably have you do a solo shoot, which means you get yourself off, and I film you. If it works, we move forward from there. If not, we’ll let you go. And if you’re not interested at all, that’s fine as well. Though I’m really hoping you’ll say yes. I have a feeling you could be extremely successful.”  
  
Louis stares at the yellow sheet. Two thousand dollars.  _Two thousand dollars._ “I don’t, er.” Louis coughs. “I don’t really have any idea what to say, really.”  
  
“So don’t say anything,” Simon says easily, reclining back in his chair. “Give yourself a week. Think, fuck around, masturbate, whatever is that you need to do, alright, do that, and then give me a call. Easy enough?”  
  
Louis can only nod.  
  
“Excellent. I look forward to hearing from you,” Simon says, with an air of finality. Louis awkwardly stands, nodding goodbye to Simon, blushing even behind his ears, and leaves.   
  
He calls Simon the next day. It’s a yes.   
  
\--  
  
Harry Styles hasn’t left his apartment in three days.   
  
His phone nearly catches fire with the incessant buzzing of missed calls, voicemails, text messages, but he just can’t bring himself to pick up his cell unless he’s ordering takeout for himself. He just sits in his bed with his computer and a giant bottle of gin he unearthed from the cabinet above his fridge.   
  
If anyone were to look at his internet history, they’d say he was obsessed.  
  
He’d visited nearly every free porn website there was, every gay porn blog, anything he could find, all with the same search:  _Louis Lucas._  
  
He found an interview with Simon detailing their first meeting.  
  
 _“I found him auditioning for a television role, and immediately thought, No. Television would be such a waste of that arse. He didn’t end up getting the part, obviously, and of course, fresh from rejection, he was quite willing to join my team.”_  
  
 _Are you saying you helped in getting him turned down? “No, not at all. They were considering him for the part, and I assured them it was wrong for him.”_  
  
 _So you got him turned down? “You make it sound like a bad thing. Everyone benefitted. Trust me, Louis Lucas is making far more money with me then he ever would as a B-list actor on a television show that was bound to be cancelled after one season anyways.”_  
  
Harry is reeling.   
  
 _“And why were you so set on Lucas?”_  
  
 _“He just had a certain, compelling something that I just knew would look good on camera. And he could act, which is, you know, not always the case in adult films. And the obvious physical qualities -- he has a very lovely face, which sadly can be just as rare as acting talent in this industry, as well as a fantastic body, and of course, that famous arse.”_  
  
 _“How often do real-life proclivities interfere on film?”_  
  
 _“What, as far as the models? It can interfere, sometimes. You of course know the “gay-for-pay” trend, which is extremely common because porn can pay, and gay models tend to make much more than their heterosexual counterparts. People get desperate, to put it quite simply.”_  
  
 _“But does it interfere?"_  
  
 _“Occasionally. You would assume that being willing to have intercourse with another man would make them immune to homophobia but strangely, that isn’t always the case.”_  
  
 _“There have been cases of homophobic gay adult film stars?”_  
  
 _“Yes. More often than you would think. Of course, our policy is that we don’t tolerate it, and we certainly wouldn’t hire anyone if we knew upon acceptance that they were homophobic, but the problem is that many of them don’t realize it until after their first shoot, when they’ve achieved orgasm having sex with another man. You can imagine how terrifying that might be to a supposedly heterosexual young man.”_  
  
 _“And what is your sexuality, Mr. Cowell?”_  
  
 _“I don’t disclose that to the public.”_  
  
Harry continues his research about the company, about Simon, about Louis’s career. His first film was called  _The Pool Boy_ , starring Louis and someone called Justin Prince, who is clearly Louis’s friend Zayn. Harry clicks on the link, and immediately regrets it.   
  
Louis looks younger, but in a way that makes Harry’s heart ache because it’s just the slightest of changes. Harry expected him to look much different, but then he remembers that Louis has this certain boyish quality, an almost Peter Pan-esque charm as if his blood was drawn from the fountain of youth, something half-innocent and childish and sweet. He looks slimmer in the video -- now his shoulders are broader, his muscles bigger, his  _curves_ more defined. It’s almost the fact that Louis looks practically the same that eats at Harry the most, because everyone wants to grow, don’t they, but Louis just stays the same.  
  
He’s the  _pool boy,_ and “Justin” is some cocky rich kid who ends up seducing him. It’s surprisingly intimate, for porn, and Harry wonders how these two came to be friends after Zayn fucked him into the ground poolside and then ate him out.  
  
He keeps researching.  _The Pool Boy_  was one of Cowell Productions’ highest-grossing films ever, and Louis apparently “immediately shot to adult film stardom.” He became their sort of token bottom boy, and his arse was so well-known in the gay adult film community that many joked it should be insured.   
  
Harry can’t stop watching him. There’s something deeply masochistic about the way he clicks link after link, because even though he’s possibly never felt more turned-on, watching Louis’s perfect mouth fall open when he comes, watching cock after cock disappear into that glorious, round little arse, watching the curves of his body fit almost decadently around man after man, there’s an even deeper, darker impulse licking at Harry, deep behind his blood, and that’s jealousy. That cock isn’t his, those men aren’t him,  _Louis_ isn’t his, and the jealousy -- something that’s always been in Harry, something dormant and sleeping -- is alive and eating at him and driving him mad.   
  
And then he remembers Louis’s face, a perfect portrait of sincerity as he told Harry he was an  _actor,_ and Harry feels something else biting at his insides, something dark and furious. He’d thought he and Louis had something special. But obviously he’d been nothing to him the entire time, if he’d been able to lie to his face without even a flicker of remorse.  
  
He throws his computer aside and calls Ed. Tonight, as usual, he’d like very much to drink his problems away.  
  
\--  
  
“I don’t even know who should be mad at who,” Harry says miserably, throwing back a mouthful of JD with a painful gulp.   
  
Ed pats his shoulder sympathetically. They’re curled up in the booth of some club that only makes Harry more miserable, watching happy strangers find each other in the dark. He’d come here in hopes of finding his own stranger -- a girl, a blonde, anything  _not Louis_ that he could fuck into and forget -- but now that he’s here, even just the thought is making him feel sick.  
  
“But...didn’t you say you weren’t even really dating?” Ed asks. He means it to be helpful but the look of utter self-hatred that crosses Harry’s face looks as though he’s only made it worse.   
  
“We  _were_ though. We fucking were. I was just too fucked-up to admit it. I didn’t want to call him  _boyfriend_ \-- I mean. I did. I really did but I was still all messed up over Lucy and I didn’t want him to feel pressured into anything but now it’s become quite clear to me that he probably did want me to put a ring on it, so to speak. We were both just being scared and stupid, and no one wanted to be the one to say it first. But that night...I said some really horrible things to him. I made it seem like he meant nothing to me.”  
  
Harry puts his glass down and buries his face in his lap. He pulls himself up after a moment, running his hand through his hair with a rough sigh. “But Ed, he also  _lied_ to me. He lied to my face. And that hurt too.”  
  
“Harry, don’t you think...maybe he had a good reason not to tell you about the...y’know."  
  
“I mean, maybe, but like...I dunno, I would’ve been perfectly understanding! Don’t look at me like that -- I would have! He could’ve told me.”  
  
Ed shakes his head. “Look, mate, I don’t think you get it. I’m sure you would’ve, okay, I believe you, but how is he supposed to know that? It sounds like he hasn’t exactly had an easy time mixing his career with his relationships. He was just being careful.”  
  
A muscle jumps in Harry’s jaw as he studies Ed’s face, feeling more and more like an arsehole as the seconds tick by. He finishes off his drink with an almost self-abusive vigor, slamming his glass down as he takes the last drop.   
  
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says miserably, almost too quiet for Ed to hear.   
  
Ed grimaces. “Well, babe, you’re 18 years old and you’ve just found out that for the past month or so you’ve been falling in love with a 21-year old gay porn star. If you  _did_ know what to do, I’d find that a bit more worrisome, to be honest.”  
  
Harry laughs too loudly, heartbeat weak in his chest.  
  
\--  
  
Louis’s career moved very quickly. His first film was called  _The Pool Boy_ , and it was almost terrifyingly successful. His co-star was Zayn Malik, a drop-dead gorgeous, half-Pakistani kid who tried to be a model, but fell into porn instead, going by the ridiculous name “Justin Prince.” He was utterly charming, once Louis got past the half-arsed “bad boy” image that Zayn flirted with. He became a sort of brother-figure to Louis, which was somewhat perverse considering Zayn had fucked him in the arse upon meeting him, but Louis soon learned that porn really was like any acting job -- the feelings portrayed weren’t genuine, it was just work. Sometimes, however, those feelings weren’t acted at all; Zayn had become utterly smitten with another of Simon’s models, a beautiful puppy dog-eyed young thing named Liam.   
  
It was somehow extremely romantic when they finally got together. Louis had figured it wouldn’t work, considering it was literally their jobs to have sex with people who weren’t each other. Somehow, however, Zayn and Liam managed to find a way for those worlds to coincide. Of course they always requested to have scenes together, and more often than not Simon obliged, because people liked to see genuine couples having sex. It is clear when emotion in porn is disingenuous, because porn stars are usually hired for their bodies, not their acting ability. Zayn and Liam don’t have to act, and they are outrageously popular.  
  
But not as popular as Louis. His pay increased astronomically, because he was getting so many offers for contracts with different companies, and Simon had to top the competition. Louis was his biggest draw, and he needed to keep him.   
  
Louis, meanwhile, was finding it harder and harder to find a way out. For one: his history in porn would always be a blemish on his resume if he ever tried to pursue a legitimate acting career. Even if he kept it buried, there is still the internet, and someone was likely to recognize him, or stumble upon it, and then what? Who would take him seriously? How could he possibly be accepted knowing anyone who knew their way around google could watch him getting fucked in the arse?   
  
And he found it impossible to carry on relationships outside of porn. The more he slept around, the more he realized that people only wanted him for the novelty of saying they fucked Louis Lucas. If he tried to pursue a real relationship, they dumped him as soon as they found out about his career. It made him feel dirty and worthless and unloveable.   
  
He began to spiral. Because if you hear something enough times, you’ll believe it. He went out nearly every night and brought someone home, and he let them do whatever they wanted. He felt utterly loved until the moment they walked out the door, and it became something like an addiction. As long as he was having sex, or dancing in a club, or meeting fit, random strangers, he was loved, he was wanted. There was a neverending stream of men in his apartment. As soon as one left, he actively sought out another to replace him. It was the sliver of time in between men that hurt the most -- when he remembered he was alone, remembered  _why_ he was alone.   
  
And then he went out with Zayn and Liam on his arm and his brightest, fakest smile plastered on his face like nothing was wrong.   
  
He really should have made it as an actor.  
  
\--  
  
“Liam, get your pretty arse over here,” Zayn hisses. Liam ambles over to him with a bright smile, which disappears instantly when he sees the look on Zayn’s face.   
  
“What is it...” his voice fades as he follows Zayn’s gaze to the bar, where a small, flamboyant figure is dancing, the neck of a tequila bottle clasped loosely in his fingers.   
  
They both just stare at him forlornly until finally a tall, broad-shouldered man with a white-blonde crew cut invites him down from the bar, and Louis eagerly takes his hand and hops down, swaying drunkenly in the circle of his arms.   
  
“Should we...” Liam starts, but Zayn just shakes his head.  
  
“No, he’ll be furious.”  
  
“Okay, so let’s look at our options then: drunk, crying Lou calling us sometime round the middle of the night because he’s been abandoned after sex, or pissed-off, drunk Lou because we prevented him from having sex to begin with?”  
  
Zayn clenches his jaw, watching Louis as he’s grinded into by this blonde, hulking stranger. “They both sound pretty fucking miserable to me.”  
  
“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,” Liam says sadly, resting his head on Zayn’s shoulder as they continue to watch the stranger become more and more aggressive.   
  
“This shouldn’t have to be our job,” Zayn hisses quietly, suddenly seized with helplessness and rage. “I thought he was sorting himself out. If it wasn’t for that fucking Harry kid--”  
  
“What if we called him?” Liam says suddenly, grabbing Zayn’s hand. He stares at him pleadingly until Zayn reluctantly turns his glare away from Louis.  
  
“Called Harry? No I don’t want Louis to ever talk to that arsehole again--”  
  
“Look, maybe if we just explained  _why_ Louis didn’t want to tell him, he’ll understand--”  
  
“Don’t you get it, Liam? He’s not going to understand!”  
  
“But Zayn, he’s our  _only chance_ ,” Liam says desperately, crowding into Zayn’s face until he’s forced to look at him. “I can’t keep putting him back together anymore. Neither can you.”  
  
“What he  _needs_  is to learn how to take care of himself. Harry can’t just...just fucking come in and take over the role of Louis’s broken self-esteem, okay, that’s fucked up."  
  
“He can’t  _be_ alone, though. He’s not capable of it...but...maybe if Harry, I dunno, maybe if he just understood that there is someone out there who loves him, who doesn’t care about the porn, he can build himself back up.”  
  
“He’s a grown man, Liam.”  
  
“He’s also only a human being. Just a kid, really.”  
  
They watch Louis from across the bar. The man whispers something in his ear and Louis buries his face in his neck, laughing, and the man cups his face with his hands and kisses him. Louis throws his arms around his neck and kisses back.  
  
“I wish...I wish people could see him like we see him,” Zayn says quietly, swallowing down a burning lump in his throat. Liam nods against his neck, bringing Zayn’s hand to his lips to brush a kiss across his knuckles.

-

At 9 in the morning, Harry receives a phone call from an unknown number. He lets it go to voicemail, fiddling with his tea kettle and flipping on the television groggily.   
  
His phone rings a second time. It’s the same number. Harry picks it up, irritated. “Hello?"  
  
“Oh. Hi. Is this erm...is this Harry?”  
  
“Yes. Who’s calling, please?” Harry tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pours himself a cup of tea, then walks out onto his balcony.  
  
“Oh, sorry, this is um...Liam? You probably don’t remember me. We met at a club once--”  
  
“Liam,” Harry repeats.  
  
“Uh. Yes--”  
  
“Are you Louis’s friend Liam?”  
  
Liam sighs with relief. “Yes! Yes, that’s me! Wow, you have a good memory--”  
  
“Is there...something I can help you with?” Harry asks, utterly confused. “Is Louis in trouble?”  
  
“Um. Yes, actually, to both questions, though for the latter it’s in a more...metaphysical sense?”  
  
“Er...okay...”  
  
“Right, so um...you and Louis. You had a sort of...a thing, right? Until you found out about the porn--”  
  
Harry nearly chokes on his tea.   
  
“And well...Louis’s erm. Well he’s having a bit of a rough time.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well...when you were with Louis, you might’ve noticed he’s not the most...stable of people. He was doing quite well for a while...when he was with you, really. And now he’s sort of...gone backwards, I suppose. I guess I should explain something, though maybe it isn’t my place to tell it--”  
  
“Then don’t tell it,” Harry says simply. “If Louis wouldn’t want you to, then you shouldn’t.”  
  
Liam is caught off-guard by the straightforward simplicity of Harry’s morals. “Yes, you’re right. I shouldn’t.”  
  
“Why isn’t Louis calling me himself?” Harry asks abruptly.  
  
Liam gives a long-suffering sigh. “Harry, he thinks you want nothing to do with him. He thinks you hate him, and that you think he’s some sort of horrible slut who’s betrayed his trust, and that you don’t want to see him again.”  
  
“He kicked me out,” Harry says childishly, pinching his own forearm as punishment for being an utter, utter  _idiot._  
  
“You told him you were only fuck-buddies.”  
  
“I didn’t -- I don’t know why I said that,” Harry says miserably, slumping against the railing.   
  
“Because he hurt you. He lied to you. But Harry, you have to understand -- most people,  they use Louis all the time. You can imagine it makes a good story, yeah? ‘I fucked Louis Lucas.’ And then if he’s with someone who doesn’t know, when they find out they can’t help but think awful things of him. He just...when he really likes someone, he keeps it a secret. He was afraid of losing you, Harry, that’s all. He was just trying to protect himself.”  
  
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his fingers into his tear-ducts because they  _burn_ with self-loathing.   
  
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says miserably. “I want to be with him, but -- I’m  _scared_ \--”  
  
“Of what, the commitment? The jealousy? Harry, those problems come with every relationship. With this one, it’s just a little more powerful. You’ve just got to be that much stronger.”  
  
“What if I’m not...” Harry bites into his knuckles helplessly.  
  
“Louis’s worth it,” Liam says adamantly, and Harry feels his eyes burning.  
  
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, he is.”  
  
“And he needs you. He needs you a lot.”  
  
“I need him too.”  
  
“Okay,” Liam says encouragingly. “Okay, you know what to do then.”  
  
\--  
  
Louis doesn’t go home with him. He’s tall, and fit, and nothing like Harry Styles, and he whispers all the right things in his ear, so he should be the perfect rebound, shouldn’t he, but the problem is he’s tall, and fit, and nothing at all like Harry Styles.  
  
But Harry Styles doesn’t want to fuck him anymore. So what exactly is he supposed to do? He cries into Liam’s shoulder on the cab ride home, deep, hiccuping sobs, the kind that rattle your entire body, that leaving you feeling  _weak_ afterwards. They help him into his flat and tuck him into bed and pet and cuddle him until he falls asleep, wrapped up in their tired arms, smothered by their tired lips.  
  
At around 9 the next morning, Liam slips out of bed, and Louis pretends not to notice, burying his head in Zayn’s shoulder even though he can’t fall back asleep. He hears snatches of hushed conversation on the balcony, but he doesn’t want to listen. He just ambles into the kitchen and makes a pot of tea, handing Liam a cup as soon as he steps back inside.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, catching sight of Liam’s face.   
  
“For what?”  
  
“For...being such a fuck-up,” Louis says, smiling for Liam’s benefit. He pats the space next to him on the couch and Liam fills it without a word, sipping at his tea and resting his head on Louis’s shoulder.  
  
“You know,” Louis says conversationally, “for a fuck-up and a pornstar, I make a damn good cup of tea.”  
  
Liam doesn’t laugh, not even for Louis’s benefit. Louis fiddles nervously with the handle on his tea cup, feeling restless and lonely, even more so when Zayn steps in, looking at Liam with sad, fond eyes.   
  
“There’s more tea on the stove!” Louis says brightly. “I could pour you some if you like! I would also offer to make breakfast, but I think that would be more of a punishment for you both, wouldn’t it...” Louis babbles, springing up from the couch so Liam and Zayn can sit next to each other.  
  
“Look, I think we’re both actually gonna get going...” Zayn says, pulling Liam up from the couch. “He’s got a shoot today so we’ll both be in the studio all day. We need to go home and get ready.”  
  
“Oh! No problem!” Louis chirps, plastering on his biggest smile. “Um...hope it goes well, then!”  
  
“What are you going to do today?” Liam asks quietly.  
  
“Uh...dunno! Maybe I’ll go to the shops or something, or the gym, who knows.”  
  
“You could stop by the studio if you want? I’ll just be hanging around all day while Liam shoots, we could--”  
  
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll be fine, boys, I swear,” Louis assures them confidently, pushing them towards the door.   
  
They leave somewhat reluctantly, and Louis wanders aimlessly throughout his flat as soon as they’ve gone, cooking himself a shitty breakfast and collapsing on his couch to watch shitty reality television. He stays like this nearly all day, leaving his couch only to order a pizza and retrieve beer from his fridge, watching football in his underwear feeling sorry for himself. It starts raining in the late afternoon; if Louis were a poet, he’d write sad poems about it. He’s not though, so he just makes an art of miserable wallowing, finishing yet another beer and eating his weight in pizza.  
  
Around 8 in the evening, there’s a knock on his door. Louis doesn’t bother to get dressed, because Liam and Zayn have seen him like this hundreds of times and if was wearing clothes, they’d probably just insult his outfit and make him change anyways.  
  
“Liam, shield your virgin eyes, darling, I’m not quite modest yet--”   
  
The words die on his lips as soon as he opens the door to see Harry Styles staring back at him, dripping wet and vulnerable-looking and just as breathtakingly beautiful as Louis remembered.  
  
“Harry...” he breathes, begging his knees not to knock together.   
  
“Hello,” Harry says quietly, staring at Louis in that intense way that always made him feel weak in the best way. “Can I er...can I come in?”  
  
And then Louis realizes that he’s practically  _naked,_ and that Harry is shivering and wet and god, this would make such a perfect scene for a fucking  _porno,_ wouldn’t it? He covers himself with embarrassment, saying “sure, sure, of course!” in a voice that is too high-pitched.  
  
“I’m really sorry about the...” Louis babbles, gesturing down on his mostly-naked body.  
  
“Don’t ever be sorry about that,” Harry says roughly, and Louis freezes.   
  
Harry’s eyes widen. “I um -- I’m sorry, that was...a bit inappropriate.”  
  
Louis swallows. “I’m just...going to go change then. Um. There's towels in the closet, if you want to dry off. Make yourself at home, please, there’s beer and pizza and a remote, just, go wild,” he says quickly before dashing into his room, nearly crumpling before he’s even managed to close his door.  
  
“ _What the flying fuck are you doing?”_ Louis whispers to himself, crawling into his closet to find something appropriate to wear, but everything is too camp or too slutty or too obvious or too hideous, so he finally just pulls on a plain white t-shirt and sweatpants and returns to the living room, trying not to appear as though he just nearly had an aneurysm picking out his clothes.  
  
Harry is pacing when he returns, stopping immediately as soon as he sees Louis.   
  
“I’m sorry,” they say at the same time, and it’s so fucking stupid that Louis wants to punch both Harry and himself in the face.   
  
Harry laughs, eyes lighting up in that ridiculous way that Louis thought could only happen in cartoons. Louis bites his lip, giggling a bit nervously, and prays that Harry can’t hear how fast is heart is beating when he starts walking closer.   
  
“So can we er...can we talk about things? Like, properly?” Harry asks quietly.  
  
“Yeah,” Louis whispers. He clears his throat, blushing, when Harry takes his hand to lead him to the couch.   
  
They sit down, and Louis doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he just puts them in his lap, and Harry fixes him with that intense stare.  
  
“I want to be with you,” Harry blurts out. Louis’s eyes fly up to meet his, wet and wide and incredulous.  
  
“Why?” He breathes, utterly confused, because he was pretty sure -- no, one hundred percent positive -- that Harry thought he was the scum of the earth.  
  
“Wow, I’ve -- I’ve really fucked everything up, haven’t I?” Harry laughs mirthlessly, running his hand down his face. “Louis, I -- look. I don’t know how to apologize for what I said. I was being a total piece of shit. I just -- I was in shock, and a bit hurt, and a bit confused, and -- and even still, I had no right to make you feel the way I did.”  
  
Louis’s eyes fall to his lap, and he feels Harry’s fingers under his chin, gentle, coaxing him to look him in the eye. “Louis, I’ve...” Harry swallows nervously, dropping his hand from Louis’s face to squeeze his hand. “I’ve never...really felt like this before, to be honest. This...getting attached to someone,  _liking_ someone for more than one night, all this...I’ve -- I’ve always wanted it, it just never really happened for me. But  _you_  -- all of a sudden you just fucking...just walk into my life, like that, and all of a sudden everything that made sense to me is flipped upside down and fucked sideways and I really have absolutely no idea what the hell I’m doing here. I didn’t plan it, I didn’t ask for it, it just sort of...happened. And I’m scared, to be perfectly honest. But...really fucking excited too. It’s really weird. I don’t understand any of these feelings at all and there’s...something really beautiful about that, maybe. Like I don’t ever want to get used to it.”  
  
Louis just keeps staring at him, confused and hopeful and blue-eyed, and Harry squeezes both his hands together inside of his. “Is this...is this okay? I know I’m doing a shit job of this--”  
  
“No, no, you can keep going,” Louis whispers with a smile, a ghost of his cheeky self that has the corners of Harry’s mouth curling upwards whether he realizes it or not.  
  
“Okay. I want...I want you to see you like I see you. Because Louis, you’re so, so  _fucking_ beautiful and you don’t even realize. You’re funny and you’re fascinating and charming and frustrating and always, always exciting. I can’t ever imagine a boring day with you. Being around you is like...it’s just easy. We just sort of fall into each other’s worlds and...and fit there...and this is so cheesy, all of this cheesy, but I really, honestly feel like we’re supposed to be together. Just the fact that all of the people in this giant fucking city, we saw each other once at a restaurant, and almost had dinner until what’s-his-name stole you away. And -- and the way you just sort of fit in my arms, like you were hand-picked for me and I was hand-picked for you. And that’s why -- Louis, look at me -- that’s why I don’t fucking care what you do to make a living. I don’t. Sure, it’ll be hard -- I can’t help but be jealous sometimes, especially when it comes to you ‘cause you drive me fucking mad. But I want to try. If you’d let me, I’d do whatever.”  
  
“Harry, if any of this is a joke--” Louis says, voice coming out wet and raspy.   
  
“There you go again,” Harry says exasperatedly, moving so close to Louis that he’s practically in his lap. “Why can’t you ever just  _believe_ me when--”  
  
“Can you really blame me?” Louis cuts him off desperately, pulling his hands out of Harry’s and wrapping them protectively around his middle. “I mean, fuck,  _look at you!_ Harry, seriously? You’re like -- some sort of ridiculous Mr. Wonderful-Disney Prince-superhero hybrid and I’m--” Louis throws his hands in the air helplessly. “I mean, fuck, I couldn’t even dream you up if I tried. In what demented universe would someone like you  _choose_ to be with someone like me?! I mean, what troll of a higher being manages that? It doesn’t make sense! You’re  _perfect_ \-- and I’m -- I’m like just some accident barely disguised as a human being with a famous gay arse.”  
  
Harry grabs either side of Louis’s face and yanks him into his lap, where Louis lands with a yelp until Harry is kissing him breathless, hard and messy and bruising. He hitches Louis’s thighs around his waist and wraps his arms around Louis’s waist, pulling him impossibly close. Louis strokes over Harry’s cheekbones and presses their foreheads together, letting Harry’s lips ghost over the contours of his face, sweet and adoring and worshipful.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Harry whispers. “Like, one of the stupidest boys I’ve ever met.”  
  
Louis opens his mouth to protest, or maybe to agree, but Harry kisses him quiet before whispering, “One day, you’re going to understand. You’re gonna see you like I see you. My perfect, gorgeous, lovely Louis.”  
  
Louis sighs happily, ducking his head to bury it into Harry’s chest. He breathes in his smell, because Harry always smells wonderful, like sun and cinnamon and clean laundry and sweet aftershave. There’s hints of rain too, from the weather, and he’s a bit damp, but it isn’t uncomfortable.  
  
“I haven’t been able to have sex since you’ve been gone,” he whispers, muffing his voice into Harry’s shirt.   
  
“Me neither,” Harry sighs, playing gently with the soft, baby hairs that spill over Louis’s ears. He scratches behind them like a cat. “No matter who it was with, it would’ve been disappointing.”  
  
Louis pinches Harry’s side, and he jerks away, giggling. “M’serious!” Harry says earnestly.   
  
Louis sits up so he’s sitting sideways on Harry’s thighs, tucking his head under Harry’s chin.  
  
“I did um...I did watch some stuff, though,” Harry mumbles.  
  
“What stuff?”  
  
“You know...your um. Your porn.”  
  
Louis tenses, swallowing tightly. “Oh. Well, er. That’s a bit humiliating.”  
  
“Louis, I -- I was just trying to understand. Do you even know how much there is about you out there? I mean you’re like some sort of god in the gay community. And I read some interviews Simon did about you, researched a bit about your career...”  
  
“So we don’t need to talk about it then, yeah, because apparently you already know everything--”  
  
“I want to hear  _your_ side of it, though. And I’d still like to know why...you know, why you didn’t want me to find out.”  
  
Louis exhales hot against Harry’s neck, before leaning back to look Harry straight in the face, eyes sharp. “Harry, you have to understand something. You might be all lovely and enlightened and open-minded and whatever, but most people aren’t, okay? I’ve never been able to have a boyfriend. I’ve never been able to have any sort of relationship at all, really, because people have always just assumed that being in porn automatically means that I’m only useful when it comes to sex, and I’m apparently incapable of carrying on proper relationships without my career interfering. I mean, no one’s ever even given me the  _chance._ I just -- when I meet someone I like, I don’t want to risk it. It’s always doomed to begin with, because how could they not find out, right?”  
  
“Louis, have you ever -- have you ever tried, y’know, stopping? I mean, it sounds like you’re completely  _miserable_ \--  
  
“Of course I’ve tried stopping!” Louis cries. “Until I get to an acting audition and the gay casting director recognizes me! Or until I go to football tryouts and some guy in the locker room starts catcalling ‘Louis Lucas,’ or until my mum calls me because rent is due and her ex-husband is behind on child support.”  
  
Louis breathes heavily, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Harry’s big, sympathetic eyes. “Look...porn is...it’s easy. I’m actually, y’know, I’m  _good_ at it, sad of a talent as that is, and I make a lot of money--”  
  
“You can’t just do something because it’s  _easy_ , what kind of life is that--” Harry interjects quietly, but Louis shuts him up with a look.  
  
“Yeah? That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Dropped out of College to Be a Fucking  _Singer/Songwriter._ I did what I had to, alright. And now it’s too late to go back, I get it, that’s  _fine--”_  
  
“It’s not too late,” Harry whispers, squeezing Louis’s knee like a plea.   
  
“Harry, I’m sorry, but you’re 18 fucking years old, and I really don’t need whatever naive bullshit--”  
  
Harry doesn’t let it go, taking Louis’s hands and squeezing them between his own. “We could -- we could move! We could go to America, or Australia, anywhere, and start a new life, where no one knows you. We could go to Simon and ask him to take down your videos so you could start an acting career--”  
  
“Sweet young Harold, you do realize that America and Australia still have the  _internet_ and also, those aren’t my videos, they’re  _Simon’s products,_ there’s no way in hell he would--”  
  
“But why does it even  _matter?!”_ Harry demands, shaking Louis a bit. “So what, you get an acting gig and then someone finds your porn and you just  _give up_? Who gives a fuck! It’s in the  _past,_ you were  _young,_ you were desperate, you needed money for your family, and it’s just  _porn_ for fuck’s sake. I mean it’s not like you’re a fucking murderer! You didn’t hurt anybody! What does it _matter,_ Louis? Who  _cares_  what they think?”  
  
Louis laughs helplessly, stroking his thumb over Harry’s soft cheek. “Asking me not to care what people think is asking me to betray every basic human instinct we have. We can’t all be superhuman like you, Harold, not us mere mortals.”  
  
“Louis, you’re so  _frustrating_ ,” Harry breathes shakily. Louis just smiles sadly.  
  
“What would you have me do then? Hmm? Just waltz right in to Simon’s office and slam down my letter of resignation? Maybe give him a nice middle finger salute on my way out the door? And then just strut right into an audition and wow them with my adult film experience, maybe talk about my huge fanbase in the gay community, and then come home and slip into bed with you?”  
  
“That’s exactly what I’d have you do,” Harry says seriously, staring at Louis intensely.  
  
Louis shakes his head, smiling incredulously at this beautiful, ridiculous, extraordinary boy. “It’s that easy?”  
  
“It’s that easy,” Harry whispers, smiling that stupid cartoon grin of his again. Louis sighs happily in spite of himself, allowing Harry to grab him by the back of the neck and pull their mouths together. 

-

It isn't that easy.  
  
“You’ll have to forgive me, I must have misheard you. Could you repeat yourself, sweetheart?”  
  
Louis blinks at Simon’s stern, terrifying face, sweat beading at his temples. “Erm, I...you know. I’d like to quit.”  
  
“To sit?”  
  
“I’d like to quit.”  
  
Simon smiles. “No you wouldn’t.”  
  
“I...I would. Look, Simon, this is nothing against you, alright, I just. I think I’ve had enough. I’m getting too old for this anyways--”  
  
“You’re only 21,” Simon says sharply. “Do you know how old most porn stars are?”  
  
“No, I mean -- for me. Too old for  _me_. If you remember, I didn’t even want to get into this. I wanted to act.”  
  
“You’re acting here.”  
  
Louis actually laughs out loud.  
  
“Look, I’m...I’m going to go now, okay? You can...can send me any paperwork I need to fill out, or whatever--”  
  
“It’s not that easy, Louis. You have a contract.”  
  
Louis’s blood freezes. “I -- my contract -- I’m under commission per film, there’s nothing about how long I have to stay to here --”  
  
“I’ll have the company lawyer look at it.”  
  
Louis swallows, nails biting into his palms. “You can’t -- you can’t keep me here.”  
  
“You’re very right. I can’t. I’m just trying to understand, Louis. We’ve both made each other a great deal of money. I’ve treated you well, you’ve been incredibly successful, I mean, Jesus, you’ve really, really made a name for yourself--”  
  
“As a  _pornstar._ ”  
  
“And what’s wrong with being a pornstar, hmm?”  
  
“Nothing. Nothing at all. This isn’t anything to do with  _porn,_ okay, porn is fine, porn is great, we’re celebrating sex, we’re bringing people joy, sexual freedom, whatever, and that’s all bloody fantastic, but none of those are the reason I got into porn and you of all people are well aware of that. I was desperate and I needed money, and now -- I’m better. I’m not some impressionable teenager on his own anymore -- there’s other things I wanted to do with my life, okay? And right now I’m in quite the nasty rut and I can’t --” Louis exhales shakily, gripping the edge of Simon’s desk to steady himself. “I can’t get out if I stay here, doing...doing all this. So please, just. I don’t want to leave on bad terms. But I need to--” Louis stands up. “I need to go.”  
  
Simon taps his pen against his desk, staring up at Louis like he’s something mildly irritating. “There’s nothing I can do to persuade you?”  
  
Louis swallows, shaking his head.   
  
“Alright, well,” Simon stands up, sighing. “I guess I’ll put the paperwork together then.” He walks Louis to the door, reluctantly polite. “As long as you won’t be a stranger, then.”  
  
“Please, Zayn and Liam are my best friends. Unfortunately, there’s no way you’ll ever properly get rid of me,” Louis smiles cheekily, and he and Simon share an extremely awkward farewell embrace. By the time he’s finally outside again, the sun on his cheeks feels like freedom, a blessing.   
  
And Harry is waiting for him on the steps with a cup of coffee and a big, stupid grin, and Zayn and Liam are next to him with wet, sappy smiles and open arms and Louis throws himself into all of them and just tries his best not to burst into tears.  
  
“Harry would you mind if we have him for the night?” Liam asks politely. “It’s just that we’ve been waiting for this day for quite a long time.”  
  
“Oh, he’s all yours, mate.” Harry waves his hand at them.  
  
He winks at Louis and grabs him by the elbow, leaning in close to his ear. “But can I have you tomorrow, babe?” He whispers lowly, and Louis bites down on a giddy grin, nodding and going up on his tip-toes to kiss Harry’s cheek.   
  
He can feel Zayn and Liam watching Harry closely, scrutinizing and over-protective. Harry, the observant motherfucker, steps away from Louis politely and turns to Liam and Zayn, bending over in a queer little bow and offering his prettiest, most innocent smile. Louis snorts.  
  
“What are your intentions with our son?” Zayn asks Harry sternly, pulling Louis in between him and Liam, bearing over him like protective fathers. Louis widens his eyes at Harry, trying desperately to communicate  _I am so so sorry please forgive me I am not responsible for them_ , but Harry seems way too delighted by them to even care.  
  
“Tea parties and hand-holding, mostly,” Harry says seriously.  
  
“He’s virginal and pure,” Liam warns Harry, squeezing Louis’s shoulder. “Please don’t ruin our dear Louis’s precious, lily-white chastity.”  
  
“I don’t even know what sex is,” Harry says helpfully.  
  
“Ah! He’s perfect,” Zayn says, offering Harry a broad smile.   
  
“Do I have your blessing then?” Harry asks.  
  
“You have to come and have drinks with us, first,” Zayn winks.   
  
“Success!” Harry and Louis cheer in unison, but Liam yanks Louis back.  
  
“Not you, Boo Bear, you’re underage.”  
  
“Okay, we can stop with this game now,” Louis says, slapping Liam’s hand off his shoulder. “Besides, if anyone wouldn’t be allowed to go, it’s Harry.” He steps over to Harry and slips his hand inside Harry’s coat pocket. “This curly-headed ray of sunshine is only 18.”  
  
“What?” Liam gasps, at the same time that Zayn mutters, “Whoa, mate, you’re practically a fucking cradle-robber.”  
  
Harry and Louis both look mildly affronted, but agree to get drinks on the weekend ( _to make sure Harry’s intentions are pure._ ) Louis sneaks in another kiss on the cheek before sauntering back over to Liam and Zayn, darting out of the way just in time when Harry reaches out to smack his bum.   
  
Louis looks over his shoulder as he’s dragged away, and Harry is still standing there, smiling like an idiot. Louis’s cheeks ache.  
  
\--  
  
It takes Louis four months. Four months of head shots and finding an agent and auditioning and auditioning until his shoulders feel brittle from all the rejection piled on top of them and the only way to feel light again is in the circle of Harry’s arms.   
  
After the first month, he has to sell his flat because he’s nearly out of money. He was never a good saver to begin with, and most of his savings go straight to his family anyways. Harry, of course, insists that Louis moves in with him,  _because you practically live here anyways_ and  _remember when I told you I’d take care of you, Lou, remember that?_ Louis hates it at first. He loves Harry but he’s always been the big brother, he’s always had to take care of himself and while it’s nice, in a way, to know that Harry loves him so much, Louis can’t help but feel extremely pathetic.  
  
He manages to get a job as a waiter at this sort of big family chain restaurant, and it sucks, mostly, but at least this way he can contribute to the rent a little and not feel like such a waste of space, even if Harry wishes he didn’t because  _less time in bed with me, boo._ He works really late, and he always comes home smelling like french fries, but Harry always waits up for him. He has his food all laid out when Louis comes in and he sits with him and lets Louis vent about his night and sometimes cry when he needs to.  
  
“--and we just hired this new kid, he’s just a bus boy right now, but I swear to God, he reminds me so much of me in high school.”  
  
Harry laughs. “I can’t really even picture you in a high school.”  
  
“What? Why not?”   
  
“I dunno, you’re too flamboyant for high school. I just can’t picture you sitting still in a desk, that’s all.”  
  
“Oh trust me, young Harold, I  _was_ too flamboyant. And I couldn’t really sit still. Looking back, I’m pretty confident I had ADD, only mum couldn’t afford the meds for it, so I just carried on being an obnoxious little shit. I played football and I did lots of theatre and all the older boys picked on me for gay. Fun times were had by all.”  
  
“They picked on you?” Harry repeats, frowning. Louis smirks at this.  
  
“Ah, here he comes. I love when you get like this.”  
  
Harry furrows his eyebrows. “Like what?” He pouts.  
  
“All protective and cute.”  
  
“Excuse you, I’m terrifying.”  
  
“I know,” Louis sighs happily. “What were you like in high school, then, Harry? I bet you were really popular, weren’t you?”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Harry blushes, and Louis cackles.  
  
“You were, weren’t you! Charming little bugger. I bet big gaggles of girls followed you around and wrote “Mrs. Harry Styles” on their notebooks. I bet you had  _secret admirers._ ”  
  
Harry bites his lip, staring up at Louis from beneath his eyelashes. “I dropped out.”  
  
“What?” Louis sits up in his chair. “So...so you were the  _bad boy,_ then?” He smiles giddily. “Oh my god, did you wear  _leather?_ I bet you did. Oh, I can see it, with your tattoos and your messy hair. You sexy little shit. I read you all wrong, didn’t I? Were you kicked out or did you drop out?”  
  
“Well...both sort of. I was put on academic probation and then I just...left. I wanted to do music and stuff.”  
  
“Why were you on probation?” Louis prods.  
  
“I was um...with a girl,” Harry mumbles.  
  
“Oh? Tell me more.”  
  
“And we er...well we were out on the football field one night. It was like...2 in the morning or something. And I had some weed on me so I thought it’d be a great idea if we just lit up, right there in the middle of the field. And then I took a giant whiz too, ‘cause I thought it’d be real impressive. And then security showed up at the top of the bleachers and I was high and with a girl so I didn’t care. I think I howled at the moon or something. They weren’t very happy with me, yeah.”  
  
“Oh, Harry,” Louis sighs, leaning back in his chair, smiling fondly at Harry.   
  
“Wish you went to my school. Maybe I would’ve stuck around,” Harry grins.   
  
“Or you would’ve dragged me out with you.”  
  
Harry laughs, pulling Louis into his lap. Louis breathes into his neck, inhaling deeply and pressing his mouth against the skin stretched over Harry’s pulse. They sit like this, quiet, before Louis whispers, “Harry, why don’t you ever tell me about your day?”  
  
Harry shrugs. “Not much to say. It’s all boring, really.”  
  
“What are you talking about? You have a  _record deal._ You’re finally recording your album. Hell of a lot more exciting than being a fucking  _waiter--”_  
  
Harry sighs, resting his head against the headboard. “No. It’s boring, okay. I’d rather just listen to you,” he mumbles, burying his lips in Louis’s hair.   
  
It’s not necessarily true. Harry’s had his record deal for nearly two months now, and it’s like the world’s been spinning on its axis for so long, trying to find the right place to stop, but it kept missing, or it flew too fast or too slow and now it’s finally found a place to rest, a perfect home with producers who listen to him and songs that practically write themselves. There’s  _Nick_ and _Niall,_ who have suffered with him for so long and there’s nothing sweeter than seeing them with him in the studio, laughing and singing and  _making it._ Harry feels like he can finally exhale, after so much time holding his breath, and yet his lungs always feel tight with love and excitement and a sort of beautiful disbelief. Everyone makes fun of him -- Nick, Niall, his mum, Gemma -- because he’s only 18 and yet look how successful he’s already become, the boy who always gets exactly what he wants -- but they mean it fondly, because Harry may be lucky and charming but he is also talented and deserving and hard-working.   
  
And at the same time -- there’s Louis. Louis who is Harry’s biggest fan, who goes to every show and stands in the front row and sings along the loudest, dancing and shouting and riling up the crowd, staring up at Harry with adoring smiles and bright, wicked eyes and wild laughter. Who goes to the studio with Harry and takes care of him when he’s stressed and rubs his shoulders and brings him coffee and doesn’t mind staying late with Harry when he gets in one of his neurotic, perfectionist moods. He kisses Harry’s chafed fingertips, near-bloody with little guitar string indents, and makes him tea for his sore throat and coos in his ear about how wonderful he sounds. And Harry just can’t help but feel guilty, because everything is finally going his way, and Louis is still struggling  _so much._ Harry downplays his happiness without even realizing it, and Louis’s perceptive enough to notice.  
  
“Come on, I’m sure  _something_ worth saying happened today,” Louis prods.  
  
“Um...I finished that song? The one I was er...having trouble with,” Harry offers quietly. Louis’s eyes brighten.  
  
“That’s great! Harry, that’s so wonderful...why didn’t you say anything?”  
  
Harry shrugs. “I just...I dunno, didn’t seem important.”  
  
Louis looks utterly confused. “Why wouldn’t it be important?”  
  
“‘Cause you’re just...you know,” he mumbles helplessly.  
  
“No, I don’t know.”  
  
“I just feel bad.”  
  
“About what?” Louis asks crossly.  
  
“I just want you to be happy too,” Harry whispers sadly.   
  
“Oh.” He swallows. “So that’s what this is about,” he says tightly.  
  
Harry just stares at him with those big, wet Bambi eyes, and Louis feels himself cracking.   
  
“Oh, c’mon, Harry. Are you kidding me? I mean -- okay, I’ll admit, not being able to support myself right now is a little embarrassing, and being successful was nice and all, sure, but it was lonely and I felt shitty all the time and now...now I’m  _happy,_ okay, I’m fucking happy, because I like myself a little bit more everyday and I have this stupid teenage boyfriend who is maybe the closest thing to perfect that humanity has to offer. And my dumb teenage boyfriend also happens to be an amazing singer with an amazing opportunity and he shouldn’t feel bad about being successful.”  
  
Harry’s smile is maybe a little watery. Louis just scoffs. “When the fuck did I turn into this sappy sack of shit? I used to be respectable. What did you even do to me? Sorcery.”  
  
Harry cups his face and leans down to kiss him, sweetly.   
  
“You’re a wizard, Harry,” Louis whispers directly into Harry’s mouth, deepening his voice dramatically.    
  
Harry nearly chokes, and somehow, even that manages to be a damn good feeling.  
  
\--  
  
Niall, Harry, Zayn, and Liam are all crammed into a tiny booth in the corner of Louis’s restaurant, watching him run around frantically as he attempts to serve a giant party consisting mostly of children, plus the four other tables in his section, not including his friends.  
  
“Hey, why don’t I just have Cher or somebody take care of you, because honestly you’re never going to get anything, we’re horrendously understaffed and they’ve just double-sat me and I’m going to get no tips at all at this point--” Louis babbles, wiping a trickle of sweat from his hairline.  
  
“Oh, Lou, c’mere,” Harry says, pulling Louis in for a kiss on the forehead. He holds him until Louis’s breathing evens out. “Look, we’re fine. Take as long as you need, okay? And besides, looks like that table’s finished, they’re getting their wallets out and everything.”  
  
Louis sighs with relief. “Oh thank god.”   
  
He runs over to the table Harry points at, collecting credit cards and dashing over to the computer to swipe them.   
  
“--anyways, like I was saying,” Zayn continues. “There was this big, beautiful bloke -- think he was German or something, had a bit of accent -- anyways, he absolutely  _demanded_ to work with Louis Lucas. So Simon told Lou, and he was like, ‘yeah, sure, don’t see why not.’ Well turns out that this guy was a proper  _stalker,_ he owned like every one of Louis’s films, and he had this weird like, collage thing of Lou’s gallery pictures and clippings from magazines and stuff. He even had a  _blog._ ”  
  
“Did Louis know about all this?”  
  
“Well...you’ll see, I haven’t finished. So, the day of the shoot arrives and Louis like, introduces himself and all that, and what does the guy do?”  
  
“Oh my god, Zayn, you’re the worst storyteller  _ever,_ ” Liam whines.  
  
“Seriously, just get on with it,” Harry prods.   
  
Zayn shoots them both withering glares. “I’m building the suspense!”  
  
“Just  _tell us!_ ”  
  
“Fine, fine.” Zayn smiles slowly in recollection. “He pisses himself.”  
  
“ _What?”_    
  
“Oh no,” Louis moans, coming up behind them to bury his face in Harry’s shoulder. “Is he telling you the stalker story?”  
  
Harry nods, grinning up at Louis. “You made a guy  _piss_ himself, Lou?”  
  
Louis makes a distressed face, slapping Zayn’s arm.  
  
“I have to say. I’m sort of impressed, babe,” Harry drawls, and Louis just shakes his head in embarrassment.  
  
“Hey, Lou, I meant to tell you -- Simon wanted us to give you a heads up because he’s buying another company and he thinks your royalties might change--” Liam starts, but is interrupted by a huge crash.   
  
“Oh my god,” Louis mutters. A small child smacked her head against a dinner tray as the food was being run, and that food was now scattered all over the floor while his co-worker looked over in abject horror. “Hang on,” he sighed, shoulders dropping, before heading over with an apologetic smile to talk down the angry customers.  
  
“Poor Louis,” says Niall, and then, “I wonder if I can take any of that food.”  
  
“Niall!” Liam gasps.   
  
“Five second rule,” Niall shrugs. “That’s perfectly good food, hadn’t even been touched. I’m going to go ask Louis.”   
  
He makes like he’s going to rise out of his seat, but Harry pushes him back down.  
  
“No you’re not, you adorable little barbarian.”  
  
Niall pouts for a moment, then begins eating the packets of crackers stacked by the ketchup.  
  
“Has he gotten any callbacks or anything?” Liam asks Harry hopefully, nodding at Louis, who is helping his co-worker clean up the mess.  
  
“Erm, he had one, last week. Don’t think he got it though,” Harry mumbles, wishing he could go over and help him. “See, that’s the shitty thing about all these auditions -- if you don’t get the part, they don’t tell you. You just wait and wait for a call that’s never going to come. I mean -- can’t they send out a mass e-mail or something? Is it really that difficult?”  
  
“Look, Harry, I know it’s frustrating, but -- even as miserable as this might seem, it’s still better than where he was,” Zayn assures him.   
  
“No, I know. Trust me, I know. I just wish something would happen. He loses his confidence so easily. I mean, I even talked to my producers -- asked them if they knew of any projects, or music videos or something. There’s nothing.”  
  
“It’ll happen,” Liam says, patting Harry’s hand.   
  
When Louis finally gets off work, they all head over to his favorite club. Even though his feet ache, he says it’s helpful to go out and dance off the excess energy, to do something mindless and irresponsible. Harry buys them all their first round of drinks, downing his nearly as fast as Louis, who is anxious to get on the dance floor. Harry lets Zayn take him, while he, Liam, and Niall watch on.   
  
“Zayn’s thinking about being a DJ,” Liam says, raising his voice so Harry can hear him above the music.   
  
“Does that mean he’d quit porn?”  
  
Liam shrugs. “I dunno. I think maybe he’d do it sort of gradually...not like Louis. Like, he’d stop officially once he’s really established himself, y’know?”  
  
Harry nods. “That’s...that’s great. I think?” He notices Liam looks a little lost.  
  
“No, no, it is! I mean...we never wanted to stay in porn. We don’t...we don’t like having to be with other people, even when we know it doesn’t mean anything. I just don’t really have a back-up plan.”  
  
“What were you doing before?”  
  
“I was just a construction worker. Worked with my dad. And then I...well, I’d known for a while I was gay, but he didn’t, and he found out, and -- it got quite difficult at home. They didn’t kick me out, but they clearly didn’t want me there, so I left. And I had a friend who said I could do webcams or something for quick money. It actually worked, and then I just thought, well why not do this for real, at least until I can find a real job. And now it’s been three years,” Liam sighs.  
  
Harry buys Liam another beer, which he waves off apologetically.  
  
“Seriously? You actually don’t drink, like, permanently? I thought it was just that one time ‘cause you were DD--”  
  
“No,” Liam smiles sheepishly. “You could give it Niall?”  
  
“Yeah, he’d never turn down a pint.” Harry hands the beer to Niall, who was chatting up some girls nearby. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he whispers lowly in his ear.  
  
“So I can do anything?” Niall replies cheekily. Harry pats his shoulder, winking at the girls before walking away.  
  
“Clearly I have to find another way to comfort you,” Harry says, once he’s returned to Liam. “I can’t offer you sexual favors and I can’t buy you drinks. I could hold your hand while our boyfriends hump each other?”  
  
Liam laughs in that way that makes his whole face scrunch up. It reminds Harry of Louis and it reminds him of how lucky Zayn is to have found a boy like him. He wraps his arm around Liam’s waist and they watch their boyfriends grind on the dance floor.  
  
“Okay, Li, even you have to admit that’s really fucking hot,” Harry says lowly.   
  
Liam nods, breath hitching a bit. The song is some slow, sultry thing about red lipstick that sounds like Rihanna. Harry tries to subtly adjust his pants. Zayn has his hands slung low on Louis’s hips, grinding into him from behind. Louis reaches up and grabs onto the back of Zayn’s neck as their hips roll together, perfectly in sync with the music’s slow, sensual beat. Louis whispers something in Zayn’s ear, and they both look over at Liam and Harry, winking cheekily.   
  
“Shall we join them, then?” Harry asks, voice husky. It sounds like a challenge.  
  
“Absolutely,” Liam says, and he already sounds a bit wrecked. Harry smirks, dragging him out onto the dance floor.   
  
Louis immediately lets go of Zayn and barrels forward into Harry’s arms, nearly knocking the breath out of him. He throws his arms around Harry’s shoulders and heaves himself onto his tip-toes to whisper in Harry’s ear. “I knew that would work,” he whispers darkly. “So predictably  _jealous_.”  
  
Harry actually growls, throwing Louis off him and spinning him around to press against his back. He looms over Louis, breath ghosting hotly over his ear before whispering, “Not jealous. Actually I was just telling Liam how hot you both looked.”  
  
Louis scoffs.  
  
“What?” Harry asks. “Zayn’s hot. Like, really, really hot. I would--” Louis digs his nails into Harry’s wrists, and Harry laughs, low and rumbling against Louis’s neck.   
  
“You sure  _you’re_ not the one who’s jealous, babe?” Harry prods, rolling his hips into Louis’s arse. Louis’s mouth falls open, wanton, and lets Harry slide his hands down his thighs, breath heavy against his ear.   
  
“How about we head back over to the bar?” Harry suggests, teeth grazing Louis’s ear.  
  
“Why would we do that? I’m quite enjoying myself here, thank you.”  
  
“Well, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry says, nibbling a little under his ear, hands roaming over Louis’s chest. He drags his thumb roughly across Louis’s nipple. “I want to get your drunk enough to let me fuck you in the bathroom.”  
  
Louis shivers, and his head slumps back against Harry’s shoulder. Harry grabs his jaw and kisses him deeply, wrenching Louis’s neck for the right angle. His hand wraps around Louis’s throat, hips rolling into Louis’s arse in time with the new song, tangling their tongues together.  
  
“Bathroom now?” Louis asks breathlessly. Harry laughs.  
  
“Don’t you dare call me a slut,” Louis warns, grabbing Harry by the wrist to drag him to the bathroom. 

-

Louis accompanies Harry to the studio the next day, hungover and cuddly.  
  
“I really hate this song,” Harry whines, collapsing onto a chair while Niall shoves on a pair of headphones, fiddling with the mix.  
  
He pats his lap, and Louis sits on top of him, twirling a curl behind Harry’s ear. “No, you don’t. You’re just being lazy.”  
  
“Am not!” Harry protests. “It’s never going to sound right because  _it’s a bad song._ Niall, please, can’t we just scrap it?”  
  
“No,” Niall says simply. “Now stop whining and let me work my magic.”  
  
“ _Niall has magic, Harry_ ,” Louis whispers, tucking his head under Harry’s chin, feeling his lips in his hair.   
  
“I’m hungry,” Harry pouts.   
  
“You’re a baby,” Louis rolls his eyes, flicking Harry’s nipple. “What do you want?”  
  
“Can you get me a sandwich? Turkey? Oooh, with bacon in it!”   
  
Louis sits back on Harry’s knees, quirking an eyebrow. “What do you say?”  
  
“Please, Louis? Please, please, please,” Harry begs earnestly, smiling prettily for good measure.  
  
“Fine, but you owe me,” Louis sighs, climbing off Harry’s lap to pull on his jumper. “Niall, would you like one?”  
  
“Yeah, mate, could you grab me a ham and cheese?”  
  
Louis nods, almost bumping into Mr. Artaud and his assistant on his way out.   
  
“Oh, hello!” Louis smiles nervously. Mr. Artaud intimidates him. “Um, sorry about that -- I was actually just about to grab sandwiches. Would you like one?”  
  
“No, thank you,” Mr. Artaud says, smiling kindly. His assistant blatantly looks Louis up and down. Louis smiles tightly, ducking his head and squeezing his way out the door.   
  
“Hey, Lou, would you get me a coffee too, pretty please?” Harry calls after him. “I’ll give you a blowjob!”   
  
Louis shouts an affirmative. Mr. Artaud looks at Harry sternly. Harry smiles innocently.  
  
“Hey, Harry,” his assistant says. He sounds and looks vaguely sycophantic, and it immediately grates on Harry’s nerves.   
  
“Hey, Chris.”  
  
Chris swipes a hand through his blonde hair, glancing about the room eagerly.  
  
“That was your boyfriend, right?”  
  
“Yup. That’s my Louis.”  
  
Chris looks at him weirdly. “You know he’s Louis Lucas right?”  
  
Harry stills him with just a look, breathing harshly. Niall watches him pleadingly, begging Harry not to get too riled up. He swallows.  
  
“He doesn’t do that anymore” is all he says, daring Chris to say anymore.  
  
Chris bites his lip, rearranging himself in his seat. He sneaks closer to Harry. “Bet he’s good in the sack though, yeah?” He chides, as if he and Harry are old friends.   
  
“Dude, come on,” Niall warns on Harry’s behalf. He sees Harry’s hands, clenched tightly between his knees, knuckles white and itching, muscles working painfully in his jaw.   
  
Chris just shrugs, staring at Harry intensely. “It’s just a joke, man, you don’t have to--”  
  
Harry’s hands move suddenly, and Chris jumps back reflexively. Harry stares at him like he wants to burn him down. “Listen,” he says tightly. “Louis isn’t a fucking piece of meat. He’s still a human being and in fact, he’s a human being I’m pretty fucking in love with.”  
  
Mr. Artaud watches the exchange carefully. “Chris, would you mind getting me a coffee? Please.” It’s not a request. Chris rises quickly, scampering towards the door, coming to a sudden halt when he sees Louis standing in the door.  
  
He darts past him, avoiding eye contact. Harry catches Louis’s eye, and Louis seems to catch his breath, throwing on a very practiced smile and flopping onto the couch as if nothing is wrong. He hands Harry his coffee and sandwich without looking at him, taking a big gulp of air because he can feel Harry’s eyes, searing into his forehead.   
  
“Niall, I got you a cookie too, because you’re a growing boy and all. And Mr. Artaud, I got you a coffee as well.”  
  
Mr. Artaud takes his coffee with a grateful smile. “Thank you. And I’ve told you a million times to call me Andre.”  
  
“Sorry, force of habit!” Louis chirps.  
  
“You know, I actually just sent my assistant to get me coffee--”  
  
“I guess his services aren’t needed then,” Harry cuts in sharply. Mr. Artaud nods once.   
  
“I’ll send him home then.”  
  
“You don’t -- you don’t have to that,” Louis squeaks.   
  
“I don’t need him for anything else,” Mr. Artaud says calmly. Harry puts his hand on the back of Louis’s neck, squeezing gently.  
  
“You didn’t get anything for yourself,” Harry comments, leaning in to Louis’s ear.   
  
“Wasn’t really hungry.”  
  
“You want some of mine?” Harry offers, wishing Louis would come back to his lap.  
  
“No, I’m fine.”  
  
“I love you,” Harry says quietly. Louis takes another deep breath, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. He looks so serious, so young and serious and sincere. Louis chews on his bottom lip.  
  
“Can we go home soon?” Louis asks quietly, glancing at Niall, who pretends as though he isn’t listening.  
  
“Of course.” Harry grabs Louis’s neck, pulling him forward to plant a kiss on the top of his head.   
  
“Hey, Niall,” Harry says loudly. “Are you going to keep working at it?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, in fact I’ll be fine here alone. You guys can go if you want, I’ll show you what I’ve worked out tomorrow.”  
  
“Thanks, man,” Harry says, grabbing Niall in a one-armed hug.   
  
“Bye, Nialler! Work your magic!” Louis calls out, waving madly as Harry tugs him out the door.   
  
Harry tangles their fingers together. Harry feels guilty -- as if mere association with people like Chris makes him somehow responsible. He can’t help but glance at Louis pleadingly the entire walk home, begging him to say something, but Louis just stares at his shoes, quiet and deflated, shoulders small against the wind.   
  
“Can I make you something?” Harry asks, toeing of his shoes as soon as they close the door to their flat.   
  
“Not too hungry, thanks.”  
  
“Tea, then--?”  
  
“I think I’m just going to take a shower,” Louis cuts him off, leaving Harry standing in the kitchen without another word.  
  
Harry flings himself into a chair, slumping miserably as he picks at the sandwich Louis bought him. He doesn’t know what to say to him. He never knows what to say but it’s been months since Louis quit being  _Louis Lucas,_ yet it feels like he’s going to be stuck in the role forever. Just last week, they were at another club with Zayn and Liam, and Louis left them to go to the bathroom. Harry found him ten minutes later, cornered in the sinks by some sleazy guy who claimed he was a “fan” and refused to let Louis go.   
  
He throws the rest of his sandwich away and goes to their bedroom, listening to the roar of the shower. Louis’s closed the door to the bathroom, his clothes flung carelessly to the floor. Harry picks them and puts them in the laundry hamper, then strips himself. He opens the door cautiously. Louis’s facing the stream, head down while the water rushes over his head, slicking his hair forward. Harry admires the round curve of his arse, the deep bow of his spine, the strong jut of his shoulder blades and the muscles of his thighs. He opens the shower door quietly and steps behind him. Louis doesn’t move.   
  
He puts his hands on Louis’s hips, pleading, and Louis leans back into his touch, his head falling back against Harry’s shoulder, eyes closed against the spray. Harry presses his lips against Louis’s temple, and his mouth twitches, teeth scraping for purchase, and then he’s turning suddenly in Harry’s arms and pressing his cheek against his chest. A tremor ripples through him. Harry runs his thumbs over Louis’s cheekbones, kissing him once.   
  
“They haven’t called me,” Louis says shakily, lips cold against Harry’s mouth. Harry turns the knob to make the water hotter.   
  
“Who?”  
  
“The producers from that druggie film I went for. You know, the one that I said reminded me of  _Trainspotting,_ but with meth.”  
  
Harry remembers. Louis had come home from that auditioning practically glowing.  _Harry I know I always say my auditions are shit but I really, truly think I might’ve actually nailed this one._  
  
Harry had taken out Louis’s favorite wine, a pretty pinot grigio, and made his favorite dinner, and fucked him on the counter (it was their usual celebratory routine, as it reminded Louis of what he calls their  _first real date_ ).   
  
“They could still call you,” Harry whispers. Louis’s skin feels cold under his mouth, so he bullies him under the hot water. Louis lets himself be manhandled. Harry soaps up a washcloth and drags it gently all over Louis’s skin, around his ankle bone and behind his knees, his bellybutton and the small of his back, his collarbone and behind his ears.   
  
Louis closes his eyes under Harry’s ministrations, popping open in surprise only when he feels Harry’s mouth on his cock. Harry pushes him gently against the shower wall, encouraging Louis to tangle his fingers in his hair as he works on his cock, wrapping his hand around the base. He chokes a little when it hits the back of his throat, lips sliding off to lick at a vein. The flat of his tongue pushes hard against a spot under the head, and Louis comes with a wet gasp. Harry swallows as much as he can, and Louis pulls him up from his knees with a fond smile.   
  
“I think my knees are gonna bruise,” Harry whispers. “We should put a mat down there or something.”  
  
Louis laughs, cupping Harry’s cheeks and kissing him gratefully, tasting himself in the back of Harry’s mouth.   
  
“Can I wash your pretty curls?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Louis ends up basically massaging Harry’s head, who purrs like a kitten as Louis shampoos his hair. Harry sort of has to bend down awkwardly, because he’s still growing and now Louis’s head barely comes to his chin. They both like it, but Louis won’t admit it out loud, settling for tucking his head into Harry’s shoulder when he’s turned on by their height difference.   
  
When they finish, Harry wraps them both up in robes and gives himself a stupid towel turban for his hair, just to make Louis laugh. Louis makes them both tea and they curl up under the covers to watch a strange 80s film starring Richard Grant that Harry found in a clearance bin at the used bookstore.  
  
“I have an audition tomorrow,” Louis whispers as they’re falling asleep. “Zayn found it, actually. He has this DJ friend who sometimes does music supervisor stuff, and he knows this producer who’s trying to do a new TV program. I think it’s supposed to be a sci-fi sort of thing. Anyways, he got me an audition.”  
  
“You want me to go with you?” Harry asks, reaching over Louis to grab the remote once the ending credits start rolling.   
  
“No, you’ve got to be in the studio. I’ll stop by though, after, let you know how it goes.”  
  
\--  
  
It goes...well, it goes strangely.  
  
The producer is a very tall man with an almost hyperbolically thin frame. He looks like a stick figure, and he wears an awkward cap and a t-shirt that is clearly meant for a child. He folds his long, thin legs under the table and smiles toothily up at Louis when he walks in, straightening his glasses.  
  
“Hello. Louis, I presume?”  
  
“Yes. And you’re Tim?”  
  
“Indeed. You have a resume?”  
  
“Er,” Louis shifts a bit awkwardly. “No. I don’t.”  
  
“Alright,” Tim says, furrowing his brow. “Um. Well...could you speak about any experience you have?”  
  
“I was an adult film star,” Louis blurts out, closing his eyes on  _star_ because he can’t bear to look Tim in the eye after that declaration. His cheeks flame with embarrassment.  
  
Tim clears his throat. “Oh.”  
  
Louis takes a deep breath. “I thought I might as well be upfront about it. I went by Louis Lucas. I did  _gay_ adult films, to be a bit more specific. You can look me up, if you want.” He might as well commit. “I was actually quite famous.”  
  
“I mean,” Tim clears his throat again, smiling awkwardly. “Hasn’t every actor done a bit of porn? If we’re being perfectly honest about it.”  
  
Louis’s face cracks into a smile, once he realizes that Tim isn’t mocking him.  
  
“Is that true?”  
  
“Yes, I reckon it is. I mean, an actor’s got to eat, right?”  
  
“Exactly,” Louis laughs, relief tugging at his lungs, opening him up.   
  
“So...now that’s out in the open, how about the scene? I’ve got an excerpt here, if you want to just look over it for a moment, and then we can do a bit of a cold reading. Does that sound alright?”  
  
“It sounds perfect. Thank you,” Louis says gratefully, and he isn’t just talking about the reading.  
  
\--  
  
It’s been four months since he quit Louis Lucas. Three months since moving in with Harry. Three months of working as a waiter. And what feels like  _years_ of jumping at every phone call, looking anxiously at the screen, praying it’s good news, a callback, a “yes,” anything.   
  
He’s drunk off his arse at Zayn and Liam’s when he finally gets the call he’s been waiting for.  
  
Harry’s draped over his shoulders, heavy and blurry and laughing giddily. He probably thinks he’s dancing. Louis’s got a chipped shot glass full of vodka clenched between his thumb and forefinger, working up the courage to shoot it back. He can feel it sloshing around inside of him, Harry’s whiskey-breath smoky in his ear. His phone rings.   
  
“Hello?” he says groggily.   
  
“Louis? It’s Tim.”  
  
“Tim?” Louis repeats, shoving Harry off his shoulder and handing his glass to Liam mindlessly before isolating himself out on the balcony, barring the door shut with his body so no one would bother him.  
  
“Yes...are you...are you alright? You sound a bit...”  
  
“I’m fine!” Louis chirps, slapping his cheek a bit to sober up. He wishes he had some water. “Perfectly fine. Downright chipper, in fact. You?”  
  
“I’m doing quite well, and I’ve got some news for you that I think will make you even more...er, chipper.”  
  
Louis slides down the door, heart in his throat. He can’t breathe. “Yes?” He manages shakily.  
  
“I’d like to offer you the role of Gabriel!”  
  
Louis pulls his knees into his chest. He can feel his pulse beating dully in his temples, a kind of roaring building in his ears. There’s blood in his cheeks. He exhales slowly, nails digging into his forearms. “Are you sure?” He breathes.  
  
“Yes!” Tim laughs.  
  
“You want me? You really want me?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Gabriel...he was the--”  
  
“He’s the main character’s best friend, and he’s generally going to be the comic relief, I’m thinking. I mean we were sort of flirting with that idea to begin with, but after your audition, which was hilarious, we thought we’d play with that idea even more. Now, not everyone’s cast, so--”   
  
Tim continues to babble on, for about five minutes or so, about meetings and readings and schedules and Louis tries to pay attention over the furious beating of his heart, ecstasy and disbelief rolling in his stomach. There’s an urgent need to burst into tears burning in his throat. He thanks Tim breathlessly when he finishes his spiel.  
  
“I’ve been um...I’ve been waiting for someone to give me an opportunity like this for quite a long time,” Louis says, hiding his watery smile behind his hand even though he’s completely alone.  
  
Tim clears his throat. “I really think you’re going to be brilliant.”  
  
Louis barrels into Harry’s arms as soon as they finish, and Zayn and Liam and Niall and Nick and Ed and all of their friends pile on top of him, drunk and laughing and messy and under all of them is Harry’s eyes, which Louis latches onto like an anchor.   
  
“ _Louis, you did it_ ,” Harry whispers, his eyes a blurry wet sea of green, eyelashes dark and spiky against his flushed cheeks. “ _I’m so proud of you_ ,  _I’m so so so so proud of you_...”  
  
Louis grabs Harry’s collar and yanks their mouths together, and they can hear their friends’ drunken laughter around them and he knows his face is a mess of tears and his boyfriend tastes like whiskey and no one even really knows what’s going on but in Louis’s drunken haze all he can think is  _I wish I could go back two years. I wish I could go back two years and tell myself it’s okay, breathe, it’s okay, because one day I’d feel like this._  
  
\--  
  
They’re in the bath. Their hangovers woke them up with the birds, and the sun falls pale and milky through the blinds. Louis brushes his toes against Harry’s calf, smiling at him over the rim of his teacup.  
  
“My arse hurts,” Louis says, jostling his knee against Harry’s.  
  
“Please give it my sincerest apology.”  
  
“Apologize yourself,” Louis snorts. Harry stares at him intensely, flattening the mountain of bubbles Louis’s created to pull himself closer.   
  
“Did I...” Harry starts quietly. “Did I ever tell you about Lucy Hall?”  
  
“Who’s Lucy Hall?”  
  
Harry bites his lip. “Nobody. I just remembered...it seems like days ago we were sitting in here and I wanted to tell you about her, but it seemed too serious, so I stopped myself.”  
  
“And I was a prick to you.”  
  
“You weren’t a prick,” Harry says quickly. “You just...I don’t know. I don’t know what you were doing. Maybe you were scared.”  
  
“I  _was_ scared. You fucking terrified me.”  
  
Harry reaches across the bubbles and plucks Louis’s teacup from his fingers, pulling the boy around so he’s sat in between Harry’s legs, back nestled against his chest.   
  
“My favorite color is blue. Like my soul.”  
  
Harry pinches his knee.  
  
“What?” Louis laughs. “Don’t you remember I wouldn’t even tell you my favorite fucking color?”  
  
“I was being pushy.”  
  
“You weren’t,” Louis says. “Maybe you were. I don’t know. We were both quite shit at relationships to be honest.”  
  
Harry rests his cheek against the top of Louis’s head. “Mine’s red.”  
  
There’s a pregnant pause, before Louis says, “Football.”  
  
“Golf.”  
  
“ _Grease._ ”  
  
“ _Love Actually._ ”  
  
“Well at least yours is equally embarrassing,” Louis quips.   
  
“Hey, that’s a great film.”  
  
“It’s still a fucking rom com, you twat.” A pause, and then, “Mint chocolate chip.”  
  
“Strawberry.”  
  
“I feel like I already knew most of these.”  
  
“Same.”  
  
Harry closes his eyes, and Louis plays with his hands, stroking his fingers over Harry’s knuckles.   
  
After a very long silence, Louis asks, “So who’s Lucy Hall then?”  
  
“Oh, no one important.”   
  
Louis ducks his head, hiding his smile against Harry’s shoulder. Harry buries his lips into Louis’s hair, kissing him and kissing him until the bathwater runs cold.


End file.
